


Variations on a Theme

by kumulonimbus



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amelie's parents, Angst, Brainwashing, Coming of Age, Conditioning, Drama, Drug Use, F/M, Gency, Hanamura (Overwatch), Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, McGency, McGenji - Freeform, McMercy, Mcsombra, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Recall, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ritual, Slow Burn, Watchpoint: Gibraltar, Young!Genji, Young!Hanzo, attempted self-harm, spiderdragon, venomous arrow, widowhanzo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2018-09-24 10:01:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 184,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9716717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kumulonimbus/pseuds/kumulonimbus
Summary: A reformed Amelie and a still reluctant Hanzo join Overwatch. But when the woman reveals who’s actually hiding behind Soldier: 76’s visor, mistrust begins to take over. Meanwhile, Talon advances in Japan and reaches Hanamura as an attempt to gather former members of the Shimada Clan. The dragons must return home and face their past, in order to protect their future.Set one year after the recall.





	1. Variations on a Theme

**Author's Note:**

> This is post-recall, and it’s heavily inspired by the latest comics and seasonal voice lines – even so, I took some liberties in order to make this work; the biggest one being that, in this story, Ana is back. I had intended this fic to be a Valentine Day’s fic, though given the fact that it’s about Hanzo and Amélie, I didn’t want this to be exactly shippy so, as expected, lots of angst and drama between these two. 
> 
> Dedicated to my friend, the talented Kingston Ryan. We miss you, girl.

Variations on a Theme

Act I

* * *

 

_“I found myself both touched and irritated by the discovery that she was vulnerable.”_

Françoise Sagan ― Bonjour Tristesse

_“Actually, I’m extremely frustrated by having to be myself. Not by my looks or ability or position. Just by my being myself. I feel it’s extremely unfair.”_

Haruki Murakami – The Kangaroo Communiqué (from "The Elephant Vanishes")

 

* * *

 

_._

_._

_._

**I – Blood (Those old wounds)**

When he saw his younger brother jumping freely from one rooftop to the other with the grace and the poise of a professional acrobat, Hanzo Shimada smiled bitterly to himself and cursed in his native language. Being a clandestine citizen of the world was not enough to break the sounds of his Japanese roots, the portion of the land that had seen him rise and fall ever-present inside the old archer’s battered spirit. Heart, mind, body and soul – all four elements had succumbed to the irony of the moment: according to his own beliefs, he was a man way beyond redemption. Yet the ship hovering over him and the solitary beating of his heart were stating otherwise.

A  _hero_.

Genji had just made him a hero.

Ever since the night of their bittersweet reunion his brother had tried to convince him into joining the still small and very much illegal Overwatch. He had spoken about a changing world, even when Hanzo, still too absorbed in his own past, was completely unable to see it: how could this world dare to change, a world he had been once supposed to rule, when his feet were still pinned to the ground; his eyes reliving that moment – the steel of his blade damaging skin and altering bonds that should have remained untouched.

After each one of Genji’s sporadic visits, Hanzo would always find reasons to believe the brother he had once known was still present inside the shape of that cyborg ninja. The color green, for example, was the living proof that some things remained the same – Genji’s spirit dragon, the clumsy strands of hair he still remembered from their youth and the flickering lights of his younger brother’s visor seemed to be all united into one incorruptible notion: that metallic vessel in front of him was not the Genji he knew – but the Genji he knew was still inside, somewhere deep below those many layers of artificial muscle and intricate hydraulics.

According to his brother, the world was changing once again, and even if that notion alone was enough for his tired brain to struggle, Genji had opted to go far beyond it – “it is time to pick a side,” he had sentenced.

He wanted his older brother to join Overwatch.

He wanted his older brother to finally fight the good fight.

But then the younger Shimada disappeared. Hanzo waited for him but to no avail – until one night, the survivor reappeared. At first, it had seemed like a hallucination: the small, silver figure had presented itself in Hanzo’s kitchen. When the archer turned around to look over his shoulder his younger brother was already there, staring intently at him. Mesmerized by Genji’s obvious augmented mobility, Hanzo was left with no other choice than to accept the fact that the clumsy, irreverent sparrow had now become the living embodiment of subtleness.

Or perhaps, he was simply getting older.

Hanzo raised both hands in a defensive stance: he was way too tired to listen to his brother go on and on about the organization. Furthermore, he knew that even if Overwatch was still small and recruiting, he was always going to be the last person they would accept. They were Genji’s friends, after all. It was only natural they were going to wonder whether he had joined to finished what he had started back in Hanamura or not.

He couldn’t blame them. Rancor and mistrust were the only things that peculiar group of individuals had to offer to a man like him.

“I need help,” Genji said quietly as if being able to read his older brother’s mind. His gentle voice and his serene elocution successfully concealed the fact that he still understood Hanzo’s stubbornness like no one else. His countless attempts had led him nowhere – it was time to approach the situation from a different angle. “I’m going after the Widowmaker,  _brother_. But I’m afraid I can’t do this on my own.”

“Why don’t you call your  _friends_?” The archer spat disdainfully, and even if Genji’s face was concealed behind his mask, Hanzo could have sworn his younger brother was smiling back at him.

Being the ex-heir to a criminal empire, the older Shimada didn’t need to be debriefed on what Talon was or the sort of jobs they were interested in. Nor was it necessary for Genji to explain who the Widowmaker was or why she was so dangerous. But where others saw a blinding death wish, Genji saw an opportunity; the biggest chance for his brother to be accepted into the comforting arms of Overwatch. Only thing was, for his plan to work, reality needed to be adjusted just a little.

“She knows them all too well by now, the team can’t afford to be anticipated by this woman. We need to surprise her. We need to show her skills she hasn’t seen before.”

The charade was working. Hanzo scratched his chin in silent contemplation – even after all those years, it was still hard for a man like him to resist the luring call of flattery when it came to everything he was capable of while in the battlefield. Plus, if Genji was telling the truth, it was just going to be the two of them against the woman, and even if she was indeed dangerous, the archer suddenly felt quite positive that the two Shimada brothers alone could put an end to her days as a Talon asset.

The idea seemed delightful for Hanzo: sniper against sniper; the chance to fight fire with fire. His brother by his side; and no  _other_  sides involved. No foreign eyes to pry into him or his intentions; neither doubtful looks nor rancorous faces to tell him off.

It was a little too good to be true, he knew, but Genji didn’t give him any time for his wary mind to ponder.

“Tomorrow night in Lille, France. She’s using the old Église Saint André as her personal base of operations. Only two Talon operatives are with her.” The younger Shimada informed him before leaving a plane ticket on Hanzo’s counter. By the time the archer had picked the folded piece of paper, his brother was already gone.

The events of the following night in the cold winds of October hadn’t gone any differently. By the time the archer had successfully reduced the Widowmaker and captured her, his brother was already gone.

It had been too easy, he should have seen it coming from a mile away; it had been, indeed, too good to be true. Taking out the two operatives had been rather simple: the second they saw the brothers coming they started to fire their weapons at them but Genji simply deflected their bullets, hurting them with their own rounds and from that point on, it only took one of Hanzo’s scatter arrows to finish them off. The woman put up a fight for as long as she could but eventually fell, subjugated by the skills both brothers had been honing since they were but little children.

Genji flanked her, Hanzo captured her: the intricate mechanism of the brothers uniting their abilities towards the same end still functioned with the precision of a clock.

Genji handcuffed the blue-skinned woman and both brothers walked back to the entrance of the church; the deceased Talon operatives were nothing but an extinguished distraction back then.

“What now?” The archer asked, brushing his right shoulder with his left hand. He waited for his brother to answer but the only sound that was left to be heard in the cold October night was the woman’s laugh, quiet at first but gradually becoming louder as seconds went by. He knew he should have said no, knew he should have overcome the ancestral need to prove himself superior. His brother, after cheating death, had been graced by a stronger body, his instincts had been augmented – there was no reason for him to doubt Genji’s capability. But no, he had said yes, he had accepted – partially because his truncated dreams were still telling him that he had something to show, something to prove. Partially because his consciousness would not leave him be, and knowing his brother was willing to put himself at arm’s length as an attempt to satisfy the morals of an organization that was still very much illegal was not something Hanzo was comfortable with.

It was still little when compared to the collection of things he had single-handedly taken away from Genji. Yet it still was something; a first step maybe.

The sounds of the Widowmaker’s laughter quickly dissipated once the aircraft landed in front of them. The faces emerging from the ship were unfamiliar for the archer yet they all shared the same puzzled expression: it was clear he was not the one they were hoping to find.

Confused grimaces quickly turned into darker, muted accusations. It was painfully obvious that even if he didn’t know their names they  _knew_  who he was and what he had done.

The first one who dared talk to him was a small, short-haired woman. She clicked her tongue as if looking for some extra courage to speak; she seemed clearly distressed by Hanzo’s unexpected presence.

“What are  _you_  doing here? Where is Genji?” she asked in her unmistakable British accent.

Only then, when the perplexed archer was still struggling for words while Tracer, Winston and Reinhardt were closing in on him, the cyborg ninja descended from the copula where he was observing the scene and, with just one smooth movement of his silver hands, greeted his comrades.

“What is he doing here?” The woman asked, still visibly moved by Hanzo’s mere presence – only not in a good way. Her expression had lighted nonetheless now that she was seeing Genji with her own brown eyes.

“He…” The younger Shimada began as he snaked one of his arms around his brother’s neck – “He captured the Widowmaker; I merely helped with a couple Talon operatives. Hanzo is the real  _hero_  here.”

The archer flinched under his brother’s cold touch; it didn’t take much longer for the older Shimada to be free of Genji’s affectionate gesture. He stared at the group in silence, not exactly sure of what to say to them. Yes, it was true that he had been the one reducing and capturing their primary target yet that word… that word was still not meant to be his.

From that point on, everything happened so fast. The archer, reduced to a perfect nonplus, witnessed their smiles and received their congratulations. They were suddenly trying to make him feel welcome; make him feel like he  _belonged_. He recalled his brother’s words, “it is time to pick a side,” he had said. The thought was unsettling for the nearly forty-year-old archer: Genji had made the choice for him and even if the weight of a war that wasn’t even his was slowly leaving him, another part of him was still trying hard to fight the last bastions of an indoctrination he thought he had left behind.

In a matter of seconds, they were airborne. The ship was leading the team back to Gibraltar and, along with them; the captured Widowmaker – still handcuffed in the back of the aircraft – was quickly becoming the first trophy earned in the crusade against Talon.

Hanzo sat down right next to the blue-skinned woman and inspected her: he couldn’t help but to feel the concurrence of their paths united, even if only briefly, even if only circumstantially, now that they were both being led to a place where they surely didn’t want to be.

“It’s a shame you’ve chosen them…” Widowmaker whispered as soon as she noticed the archer seated next to her. “We’ve been watching you for some time now; I was certain that a man like you could only choose  _our side_ … Guess I was wrong.” She leaned in closer, even when her movements were restricted: “Anyway, from one sniper to another: I never really liked the whole concept of competition, so maybe it’s better this way. I like a good challenge; besides –  _blood will always be blood_. Can’t blame you for choosing your brother…”

“I didn’t  _choose_  Genji – I was played by him.” Hanzo retorted with his usual stern expression.

“Keep telling yourself that, Shimada…” Widowmaker whispered again as she looked the other way, “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” The archer furrowed his brow but he didn’t say a word, he knew it was pointless to try and have a discussion with that venomous woman. He stood up and left her side but as he motioned to leave, his left arm brushed slightly against hers – it was cold as ice and smooth as silk. She didn’t even care to look at him as he left; in a way, it almost seemed as if she was incapable of addressing the fact that he had touched her, even if involuntarily. There was something intriguing about that woman, he quickly acknowledged: something about her eyes, something about that cold, blue skin of hers.  _Blood will always be blood_ , she had said only moments ago, and yet the few moments they had shared were enough for Hanzo to believe that  _blood_ wasn’t exactly running through her veins. Not anymore.

.

.

.

**II – The look in their eyes**

It wasn’t the first time Gibraltar had had to endure the aftershocks of an unexpected commotion. Life after the recall still felt new and uncertain. Many new members had been recruited and some old faces had already shown up, answering a call that not only meant the chance to right their wrongs but also, the ever seducing possibility of a brand new start. But when the ship touched ground all of those faces coincided into one massive expression of surprise: they all knew the mission was risky; capturing the Widowmaker was not meant to be an easy task yet they had all hoped for the best. Genji was a strong, capable asset; after all, they were positive the cyborg ninja was the right man for the job.

But Genji wasn’t on the ship.

It was as hard for Winston to explain that Hanzo had been the one responsible for bringing her in as it was for the rest of the Overwatch members to assimilate the news. The look in their eyes was unmistakably speaking of a subtle sense of mistrust: was he one of them now? They all knew Genji had forgiven his older brother; he had been quite vocal about his intentions: he wanted his brother to join their cause so they all knew, deep down; there was no real reason for them to be so surprised by the archer’s presence.

They accepted him. Even if there was neither a celebration nor an official statement about his brand new status as an Overwatch member they all welcomed him – each in their own way. The younger ones, the ones closer to his brother, were cautious and suspicious whenever he was around. The older ones, the ones who still carried the weight of past mistakes and countless regrets wrapped him up in silence. It was not an uncomfortable silence, though; far from it – it was more of a quiet lullaby for a man that had been alone for far too long.

The first days were the hardest ones.

He was still trying to decipher his own motivations: why was he there? Why couldn’t he leave, and just go back to the life of the penitent mercenary that he had embraced years ago?

Every hour was an act of concomitant introspection for him, but most of them didn’t seem to know and those who knew, didn’t seem to care. “You could be mistaken for any piece of furniture here!” Lena had joked one day, trying to at least get him to say something –  _anything_ , in return. The only reaction she had gotten from him had been his thin lips, pressed hard into a tight line and yet more silence. He stood up and left the room, his pace calm yet lacking a clear destination.

There was only one notion and one notion alone resting inside the archer’s mind: this new version of Overwatch was still operating in the shadows; they didn’t have any real authority, any real jurisdiction to keep the Widowmaker confined inside a distant room in the last wing of the facility’s Med Bay. But that was exactly what they were doing.

“What’s going to happen to her now?” He asked Ana one day.

“We’ll see…” The one-eyed sniper let out quietly.

He was a complete stranger to their history. But he was positive there had once  _been_  history.

The look in their eyes was irrevocably indiscreet when it came to that treacherous woman, or so it seemed. There were flashes of an old, heartbreaking pity inside their eyes. Tints and hues lacking real color but still talking about a shared past. If feelings were colors, he was rather sure what they felt for him was nothing but a dull, lackluster shade of gray. Yet the Widowmaker was a sepia-colored flag for them; nostalgic and evocative, pure and corrupted, everlasting and yet, definitive.

She had been brainwashed by Talon, and she had killed her own husband.

It was a Tuesday afternoon when he finally learned those two intimate secrets about her. He had gotten up early, just like every other morning. After a light breakfast, the cool breeze of Gibraltar’s dawning hours had found him training alongside Reinhardt. It’s not that they were actually training together – it was more like they were simply occupying the same space.

Hanzo’s armored boots were not enough for the archer to successfully climb atop the old antenna facing the bay. The older Shimada fell rather brusquely, even when the German engineer had tried to help him by raising his shield as an attempt to mitigate the effects of the unexpected impact to some extent. Forcing his shoulders and neck forwards to maintain stability, Hanzo’s left ankle touched ground in a rather unnatural position; the gestures of pain and discomfort getting instantly written all over the archer’s face.

A concerned Reinhardt tried to assist him but Hanzo flinched, and refused, frustrated by his own misfortune.

“You should let Angela take a look at that ankle…” Reinhardt suggested before picking up his fallen shield. Hanzo sighed inaudibly but obliged, finally allowing the German warrior to put both his hands on his broad shoulders to help him up.

Reinhardt left him right outside the infirmary door. There was a silent understanding inside the old man’s eyes; as if subtly telling Hanzo that he wouldn’t tell a soul about his clumsy climbing session. The archer nodded and offered Reinhardt the first genuine gesture of approval and appreciation ever since joining Overwatch: a minuscule pat on the shoulder; concomitant and shy but powerful and intrinsically symbolic all the same.

It only took him a couple of seconds to understand why they would all refer to Mercy as a true miracle worker.

The touch of her hands turned out to be gentle and balsamic. The softness in her eyes was truly mesmerizing, almost as if she could understand everything about everyone. Forgiving.  Calming.  The pain in his damaged ankle disappeared with mere seconds of her staff and only a few adjustments from her fingers. He considered, if only for a moment, to let her know about his delicate ankles, a condition that had always accompanied him, even during his childhood years – only now, pushing forty, the ache in his bones felt worse than ever – Even if the repulsion he had always felt towards doctors was still pretty much alive inside of him, those gentle eyes and that tender smile of hers were making him believe that maybe, just maybe, she could actually help him.

His silent elucubrations faded from his mind the second the yellow luminescence emanating from Mercy’s staff had ceased to exist.

Ana entered the room, a worried expression written all over her face.

“She’s up,” she said, “I think it’s time…”

Hanzo left the stretcher instinctually; he didn’t need much to understand  _who_  they were talking about. With both feet on the ground, the archer noted his pain was gone, yet the uncertainty regarding that woman was persistent. He was about to leave the infirmary when the old sniper placed her hands on his shoulders and made him turn around to see her:

“We might need some help. We could use a strong man like you, Shimada.” She caressed his broad shoulders as cold sweat ran down his spine. Ana guided him through the Medical Bay until they stopped in front of the last door, still waiting for Angela to join them. When the Swiss doctor appeared on the scene, she was carrying a small black box and a white, disposable bag.

Ana produced a rusty-looking key from one of her coat pockets and opened the door – the room was silent; the curtains were closed, preventing light –  _life_  – to visit that woman resting on the stretcher. Mercy leaned in and examined the Widowmaker’s lifeless eyes while Ana opened the black box to fill two different syringes with their respective vials.

Standing alone and confused in the back of the room, Hanzo scratched the back of his neck. He had no idea what was going on or what was exactly going to happen to that woman from that point on yet he couldn’t help but feel distraught and discomforted by the eerie scenes he was being forced to witness.

“Is she dead?” he asked, even when he remembered Ana saying that the Widowmaker was up only mere minutes ago.

It was the one-eyed sniper the one who came clean to him about the French woman.

_She had been brainwashed by Talon, and she had killed her own husband._

“I need you to hold her in place for me, Hanzo,” Mercy addressed him with the same soft tone adorning her voice. “Can you do that for me?” It was like she was talking to a small child, too frightened to even look in her direction.

When the muscles in his legs finally found the strength to move his body towards the stretcher, Ana indicated him to hold the Widowmaker by her shoulders. It wasn’t like she was able to move, anyways, he thought as he obliged.  There were cables and wires all around her body; monitors beeping with the sounds of artificial miracles. They had tied her legs and her arms at the sides of the bed, it wasn’t like she was going to break free from their unusual imprisonment and yet they needed a man to hold her in place all the same.

Mercy grabbed one of the syringes and looked him in the eye as if silently asking him not to judge her for the actions she was about to do. The good doctor was now telling him all about medical procedures; explaining a collection of notions involving multiple chemicals and powerful sedatives.

The first injection was meant to erase Talon’s corruption from her brain.

The second one was a sedative; the sleeping potion that would help her rest until the process was complete.

He placed both his hands on the sides of the Widowmaker’s slender shoulders – at first, his touch was barely connecting with the woman. But as his eyes found hers, Hanzo buried his fingertips in her cold, blue skin. As the needle approached her neck, the Widowmaker’s eyes found an anchor in Hanzo’s incredulous stare: that was the first time he saw her fight.

It should have been a premonition: she wasn’t fighting because she didn’t want to give up her days as a Talon agent – she was fighting because, deep down, she knew what they were trying to do: they were going to try and retrieve the woman she had been  _before_  Talon.

Even when her body was completely still, her eyes were begging him to stop them. The pain of becoming Amélie again was unimaginable for her. The Widowmaker, even if supposedly unable to feel anything, feared Amélie – she was scared of the one she had been before, scared of everything the Widowmaker had taken away from that woman.

As the vial disappeared from the syringe, Mercy tried hard not to look at Hanzo. Instead, she busied herself with yet more clinical explanations, as if trying to justify herself, as if trying to reaffirm her reasons for doing what she was doing.

Hanzo closed his eyes thinking that maybe Overwatch was nothing but a consortium of weeping souls seeking all sorts of redemptions. Maybe that was why his brother had wanted him to join their cause, after all. To bring him closer to a sense of redemption he still felt alien. When he opened his eyes, the second needle was already going through the Widowmaker’s skin. Her eyes, still fighting their peaceful kind of inner war, were still breaking his heart: even if completely still, even if completely silent, he had never seen someone fighting so fiercely, not even when they got her, not even when they brought her in. And even when the cold numbers were stating that her kill count was bigger than his, her current situation was making him feel a nostalgia so ancient and unparalleled, powerful enough to bring tears to his tired eyes.

One last spasm of her body. One last shock of adrenaline to run through her system. Then she closed her eyes and the skin beneath his fingers relaxed; as if laxly indicating the man it was time to let go. The green line in the monitors coming to life every once in a while: she was still alive; even when her cold body was stating otherwise. He let go of her and moved away from the stretcher. He understood the cold; he understood the blue. Sleeping peacefully now and traveling through the oneiric lands of artificial slumber, that woman had silently asked for his help – her skin, colder than ever, had fought its final fight – a warmer skin would wake her now; the laconic comeback of the one she had ceased to be.

He didn’t wait for those women to tell him he was free to go.

Hanzo abandoned the Medical Bay with the image of those eyes of hers buried deep inside of him. She wasn’t fighting  _them_ ; she was only fighting to get to  _him_. The fear inside of her was the same fear he had always felt inside of him – the fear of becoming the ones they were before, the ones before losing it all.

And now that he knew her story, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for that woman.

Unlike him, she hadn’t been born a killer.

.

.

.

**III – Broken toys**

Even if the voices in his head were telling him not to, he still went to visit her every day. Early in the morning, right after his training; and half an hour before going to bed each night. Even if she was still under the effects of the sedatives, too far from him in the land of fabricated slumber, he felt glad to know that every light; every sign flashing through those lifeless monitors was stating that she was doing fine.

The blue and the cold gradually left her skin as days went by.

The color fading little by little was such a fascinating sight to see, he pondered.

It took her three weeks to wake up. Three weeks to go back to normal. Three weeks for her body to reject the effects that Talon had tattooed all over her.

He was the first face she saw when she opened her eyes; the archer rose from his chair and smiled, unexpectedly. Then ran to find Mercy, to share the good news with everyone’s favorite doctor. He hadn’t felt so invested in someone else’s story in what seemed to be a lifetime now and even when he still couldn’t find the reasons why, it still felt right all the same.

Comforting. Warm.

He followed Mercy back to the Widowmaker’s room then opened the curtains to let the light in – Angela leaned in and examined the woman, her blue eyes traveling relentlessly from that body reacting on the stretcher to the monitors connected to her being and vice versa.

“Can you tell me who you are? What is your name?” Mercy asked, unable to hide her excitement: the blue and the cold of that woman’s skin was gone, it was the first time she had successfully completed such a complicated procedure.

Removing Talon’s darkness from someone was tricky, she knew. There could always be consequences.

“Amélie Lacroix.” Her tone was soft, drowsy. “Angela?”

Mercy smiled, satisfied. She could already see the woman she had known so long ago inside those dilated pupils staring back at her. Amélie had recognized her. Amélie was back.

“I need you to remain quiet while I check…” the doctor began, but the French woman interrupted her.

“What’s going on, Angela? Why am I here, like this?”

Mercy looked at Hanzo and the archer moved nearer the stretcher. Amélie didn’t even look at him but he understood it was only natural for the woman to act that way; there would be time to explain, time to talk.

“Where is  _Gérard_?”

Ana and Reinhardt entered the room just in time to hear Amélie’s bittersweet question. Unable to answer, Mercy walked towards the stretcher and untied the woman, helping her sit down with her back against the pillows. Amélie stared into her blue eyes all the while, noticing the tears about to cascade down her pale cheeks.

“Ana, what happened to your eye?” Amélie asked the second she saw the old sniper. Reduced to a perfect nonplus, Ana held Hanzo by the hand, as if looking for stability.

“You did,” Reinhardt said, looking down.

Amélie covered her mouth with her hands yet her eyes, still desperately trying to get to Mercy, were begging for another answer.

“Angela, where is Gérard?” She insisted.

“You killed him, Amélie.” Mercy confessed, unable to contain her tears any longer.

“No…” Amélie whispered to herself as she looked down at her own hands – the sight of something so fragile, so small had her wondering whether that was true or not; she had loved that man with all her heart – there was no way she could have ended his life.

“You were brainwashed,” Ana explained, brokenhearted. Yet her words were not enough to lessen the asphyxiating pain Amélie was feeling. “This is what they do, this is what Talon is – they break people from the inside, you…”

“I killed my own husband.” Was all she could say, oblivious to the comforting, soothing words Ana was trying to tell her.

Hanzo, with his back glued to the nearest wall, saw the storm gathering inside her eyes. Saw the unleashed fury, the uncontainable fear, the trepidation, the anger. The sadness; those rainy eyes were about to drown them all in an ocean of impotence.

She was a broken vessel. Nothing more than a beautiful, broken vessel. The fiery woman he had crafted inside his imagination was no more. He doubted if she had ever even existed, maybe that stronger version of Amélie he had created inside his mind during those three weeks of waiting for her to wake up had been nothing but a palliative for his loneliness, meant to find hidden connections and intricate metaphors between them.

He didn’t stay to see the storm when the first scream roared across the room. All those connections were indeed there, towering over him, linking him to her in a bridge that was less romantic and much darker than what he had anticipated. The romanticism of their bond was nonexistent, the pinkish ribbons that should have adorned the lace connecting them were gone alongside the blue of her skin.

It’s not that he had been expecting to find love inside her eyes – far from that; the feeling was still too peculiar, too forbidden for a man like him. The romance he had expected to find in her, the romanticism in the nature of their bond was deeply rooted in a common past; in a condensed, unified suffering.

But she was nothing but an empty vessel.

He left the room in silence, only to glue his back to the deserted walls of the corridor, his legs failing him, his body sliding down to the floor.

Alone and disheartened, the archer heard the symphony of her feelings being unleashed, lacerating his ears and devastating what was left of his tortured soul. He covered his eyes with his hands, yet he soon found himself realizing that the sounds that followed could have easily belonged in the scenes of mundane life inside a mental institution.

Her screams and her fury were his own screams and his own fury, way back then, once adrenaline had abandoned his body and he could finally see the image of a broken Genji lying on the bloodied floor of Hanamura.

He had broken him.

He had broken his own brother.

Amélie’s screams gradually mutated, becoming softer in time, weaker. The silent tension emanating from her profound cries was becoming contagious, enveloping his body in the same uneasy shivering ricocheting through the inside of that room. Then she wept, like a helpless child.

Then there was only silence.

Alone in that deserted, empty corridor, Hanzo realized there was nothing around him – there was no light, no darkness, no outside, no inside.

Only Amélie’s demons, summoning his own old demons.

As he stood up and left that dreadful place he finally understood the irony of their story: Gérard and Genji, those they had broken with their own hands to answer the call of someone else’s wishes and orders were not the broken toys in their troublesome tale.

_They were._

.

.

.

**IV – A certain talent for sin**

“You should train her,” Ana suggested one morning over breakfast. “It could help her feel useful again.”

It had been more than a week since Amélie had learnt the truth about her days as a Talon agent and, even if he still had had neither the heart nor the strength to come visit her after the incidents in the Medical Bay of the facility, he doubted the woman was ready to become a deadly sniper once again.

“A man with your sense of commitment and discipline is exactly what she needs right now.” Ana went on, certain that the French woman could handle the heat. Hanzo shook his head as his hands embraced the hot mug of coffee resting right in front of him.

“I can try,” he began, sounding distant and indifferent, “but I doubt this is what she wants.” Ana furrowed her eyebrows but nodded nonetheless. “It’s too soon, and you know it.” Hanzo sentenced coldly.

“I know, but she could use the distraction.” The old sniper retorted with such motherly concern in her voice.

“She barely remembers who she is; she has no recollection of her days as a Talon operative.” The Japanese archer indicated before finishing his coffee.

“Muscle memory…” was all Ana said before getting up and leaving him alone with his thoughts. “We can’t undo the things she’s done – but maybe her skills can be retrieved and used for something good.” He heard her say as she walked away.

The way she had said those final words had been abrasive – collecting from him an unexpected impact that left him breathless. In a way, it was like she was also talking about him: it was impossible for Hanzo to undo the terrible things he had done. In their eyes, they were actually expecting him to help her recover; they were actually expecting him to help her unbury her deadly skills and her talents for sin.

Maybe that way he could also be retrieved from the darkness dwelling inside his chest.

Maybe he could also be used for something good.

.

.

.

**V – You (I see you)**

Muscle memory... it would have been an option if Amélie had actually shown  _any_  signs of interest. A whole month had passed since they had begun training together and Amélie’s progress was simply nonexistent. The first week she hadn’t even shown up. The second week Hanzo himself had gone looking for her, and she had accepted to meet with him and talk about her training. Despite the fact that she wasn’t interested in training per se, a part of him felt grateful that the woman had been polite enough as to not tell him off right away.

She listened when he told her who he was, and why they wanted him to help her with her training. She stared at him, nodding her head every now and then as if to prove him she was paying attention to his every word. A simple gesture of an education and nothing more, he acknowledged, finding himself inside the mirror of her innocuous attitude.  

The third week she had come to him.

She had found him alone, his naked shoulders kissed by the orange lights of the sunset. His bow and the quiver of arrows resting quietly by his side. He was facing the bay, too absorbed in the maze of his own mind to notice her approaching. When her shadow covered him, he turned around to meet her: she was carrying her sniper rifle in one of her hands; her grappling hook in the other.

“I thought you didn’t want this.” Was all he could say.

The woman sat down beside him; acknowledging the beauty in that landscape before them that had captivated him only moments ago. Her eyes got lost in the waters before her; as if trying to undress the horizon stretching itself into the untouchable distance. She didn’t say a word; she couldn’t exactly discern her own thoughts from the ones they were all projecting towards her. Her expectations, the melancholic sadness in her eyes – as if trying to summon the woman she had been, and embellish her with the skills of the one she was no more. Feeling a stranger inside herself, an undefined travesty of foreign personalities, Amélie took a deep breath and let her rifle rest right next to Hanzo’s bow.

“I don’t.” She whispered after a while.

“Whenever my brother and I were angry or frustrated while growing up, we would go to the Dojo, and let our weapons do the talking.” He said, biting his lower lip and trying hard not to remember that perhaps, way back then, his weapon had been much too loud for him to listen carefully to the things it had to say instead of succumbing to his darkest impulses.

After that day she was on time for their training sessions, but little had changed. She never even touched her weapon. She would only stare at it from a comfortable distance and wait for Hanzo to tell her she was free to go. As exasperating as it was, the archer couldn’t help but to feel confused by her: she still wasn’t even remotely interested in picking up the gun and honing those skills that had once been hers yet she was there with him, every day – every single day.

Perhaps she was lonely.

Perhaps she could feel he was lonely too.

Perhaps she could sense the void, the fragile frontier of those struggling to find their place in a foreign land.

The fourth week had been slow and repetitive – the scene was pretty much the same: Hanzo was still the only one training, and Amélie was still the one sitting alone, facing the bay. The rifle resting right next to her hand – so close, yet so far.

One day Hanzo kneeled down in front of her; “You know they won’t offer you a behind-the-desk position, right?” he placed his hands on her knees but the woman looked away, as if ashamed. Sighing, the archer picked up her gun and guided one of her hands to it; the instinctive thumb finding the trigger rather quickly. She stared into his deep brown eyes; she could see his chest in the scope.

He told her his story. By the time he was done, he could feel the tip of the gun pressed hard against his heart but she wasn’t the one directing the weapon –  _he_  was.

Amélie flinched but Hanzo’s grip was strong. Only minutes ago she had despised that very same weapon and now Hanzo’s life was in her hands.

Hanzo understood the danger and even when he knew his strategy was risky, to say the least, he needed to know for sure that the Widowmaker was gone, that the woman in front of him was just Amélie – that the vessel was, indeed, empty. He needed to know that she wasn’t holding back; that she wasn’t fighting the residual effects of Talon’s corruption. The tears falling from her eyes and streaming down her face were giving testimony of this: the vessel was empty. The Widowmaker was gone.

The archer let go of her hand and the rifle fell down to the ground. He collected her in his arms effortlessly, lending her a shoulder for her to cry on. Something about that woman was truly fascinating, and for the first time, his thoughts were clear enough for him to translate them into words.

“I wish my own corruption could be removed like yours was. To be able to wake up one day without knowing what I’ve done; without the memories, without the nightmares.”

She broke the embrace but the look in her eyes was cold as ice. His honesty had wounded her. His words had hurt her.

“You are the embodiment of second chances, Amélie,” he went on, trying his best to make her see that his words weren’t meant to hurt her, “you make me believe that if you can find your place in this world after everything you’ve been through – then maybe I can too.”

She stood up and kicked her rifle off the cliff – the weapon disappeared in the blue waters, never to be found again.

“You’re only doing what’s easier for you – you’re living your life through somebody else’s life.” She stated coldly. It was impossible for the shaken man to tell if she was actually angry at him or not – a curtain of dull gray had taken over her face, masquerading her every emotion. “Learn from your mistakes, archer. You’ve already been here before, you’ve already lived your life according to the plans the Shimada clan had for you when you should have lived  _your_  life; you should have been the man  _you_  wanted to be, not the man  _they_  needed you to be. Going down that road should have already proven to you that choosing the easy way out always brings the hardest, most difficult repercussions.” She turned around to leave but she froze in place after just a couple steps. Without facing him, she asked:

“You always talk about your brother and you while growing up in Hanamura. You talk about the Dojo, and how fighting was always the best option. Tell me, Hanzo, do you have any memories of you and your brother that are not related to weapons, or fights, or violence?”

Only then she dared look inside his eyes.

“Do you remember the real sounds of his laughter? The type of women he liked? His favorite meal? His deepest fear?”

He didn’t.

He had spent so much time mourning a glorified memory that the real memory had faded and vanished inside him.

“I remember Gérard. His favorite color was blue, he didn’t like ballet but he was always encouraging. Thunderstorms made him uncomfortable, just like talking on the phone. I remember how his hands were always warm and that he would always bring me my favorite cake after a long period of absence, or maybe a box of chocolates, depending on the occasion. Chocolates meant  _I missed you_ ; the cake… the cake was more of a heartfelt  _I’m sorry_. He never really explained this code to me, never got the chance, really. I just figured it out, as years went by, you know?”

Amélie wiped the tears still cascading down her cheeks as she walked back and stood right in front of him. She caressed his forehead and his protruding cheekbones with salty, wet fingers.

“Which one of us is the empty vessel, then?”

.

.

.

**VI – Spiderdragon**

That night he couldn’t sleep. He turned and tossed in bed countless times yet slumber was still elusive. Looking at the ceiling, the archer wondered where she was, what she was doing now, why she had affected him so much. The simple trigger of vacant memories assaulted him with the wrath of a hundred demons – he struggled to remember the smallest things about his brother but he came up short every time. What was Genji’s favorite color, the name of his best friend, the last gift he had gotten him for his birthday – all of Hanzo’s missing answers were now lost in a nebula of extinguished moments.

He got up and covered his body with a black robe. The nocturnal chill of Gibraltar’s midnight hour enveloped the thin material rather quickly; the cold, silken sensation brushing against his skin.

Hanzo stepped into the dimly lit corridor determined to make his way to the kitchen. But as his feet ventured the deserted corners of the base, the sounds of his loneliness were met by another sound – a cascade of chords and harmonies coming from one of the storage deposits. It was music. Soft yet irrevocably dramatic; magical – but intrinsically dark.

He found her dancing alone. The sounds coming from the small device had become her compass in a world that wasn’t hers anymore. The weak streams of moonlight fighting their way through the old, filthy curtains were enough to eclipse her saddened face.

She didn’t notice him approaching. The silent spectator of her own private ballet, mesmerized and confused.

She was on her tiptoes; her arms like broken wings trying to soar in the night.

 _The death of the swan._  Those wings coming to life only to die again; their agony and their jubilee only meant to be fleeting; the circle of life as the overture of death and vice versa.

“I knew you weren’t being sincere.” The archer let out. His jawline was rigid – inside his eyes, there was no candor, no emotions.

Unfeeling.

Amélie turned off the music and placed her hands on both his shoulders but the man took a step back, separating his body from hers.

“You don’t remember how to pull a trigger but you remember an entire choreography.”

“Hanzo, you don’t understand,”

“I do.” He spat disdainfully. “Like the language, for example. I asked Ana. She told me you could barely form a sentence in English while you were married to Gérard. Your fluency in the language was yet another one of Talon’s traits.”

He needed reasons to be angry at her even when he knew the ballerina had preceded the sniper, even when he knew that maybe Ana had been wrong. That woman standing right in front of him had undressed his fears and had played with his emotions – all of his uneasiness was contained inside the shape of her; dressed as her, molded by her. She tried to speak but the man didn’t let her; he simply left the room and left her there. Alone.

But not for long.

Her steps were quick and determined. She moved now with a clear destination.

Amélie followed him through the facility until she found him standing alone, facing the bay.

“Overwatch, Talon,  _your family_ … it’s all the same, Hanzo; can’t you see it?” She demanded, not ready to make eye contact yet close, near, as if asking that cold man for permission. “Why are you here, Hanzo? If you don’t want to be here, if you don’t belong with these people, why don’t you just leave?”

He turned around and stared into her eyes,

“Why are  _you_  here, Amélie?”

“I want to stay close to those who knew  _him_.” She answered, honestly.

“He’s gone. He’s not coming back.”

The woman surrounded him then, her hands stopping midair, as if afraid to touch him. She moved closer to the edge and picked up his bow and the quiver of arrows he had forgotten there that afternoon after their fight. With the poise and the elegance of a professional, the woman readied one of the arrows and aimed for his heart.

“You should treat me better, archer. I was your golden ticket after all.” She said.

“What are you doing?” Hanzo asked, challenging.

“ _Muscle memory_.” She replied, noticing the arrow trembling only inches away from her face. “It’s all the same, Hanzo, we’re still their puppets. They couldn’t just kill me; they needed to reform me, they needed to prove the world they were better than the one I was. They couldn’t even hand me over a higher authority because, technically, Overwatch doesn’t even exist anymore.”

She was right.

The machine of better pasts and memories of a time that was never coming back known as Overwatch had played them. Their manufactured redemptions had stopped the clocks, had made them go back in time in their own way.

And yet the dichotomy between them was still alive, as if completely alien to time and its complex mechanism. As if unable to let go. She had killed her husband but she hadn’t felt anything while she was ending Gérard’s life – he had  _almost_  killed his brother but he had felt everything. There was no escaping their realities – she wanted to feel what he had felt, she wanted the option of actual tears, the option of actually knowing what had happened that day. Hanzo wanted to forget. Everything he had felt that day was still stirring inside of him; the memory of a broken Genji was still stronger than the fact that his brother had cheated death; his brother was still alive.

Hanzo lowered his head as Amélie let the bow fall down to the ground. The arrow clicked helplessly against the concrete; unused. Then she motioned towards him, placing her arms around his neck and his shoulders.

She was exactly like him, he thought. She was not a second chance; she was no redemption.

The blue shades that had abandoned her skin were now vividly present in his arm. It was as if the elaborate patterns and creatures tattooed on his skin were actually trying to come to life. Unable to look away, Amélie was left with no other choice than to accept the fact that the ink inside his system was, indeed, pulsating right through him, awakening  _something_  inside. He knew the feeling all too well; he knew what was going to happen. He closed his eyes and tried to control it; his senses trying to hold on to that fragile woman in his arms. As the wind blew harder in the night, the woman observed the storm gathering inside that man and the thunder emanating from his arm. The shape was whimsical at first, yet it was magnificent all the same. The mesmerizing blue luminescence coming from those hazy shapes was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

She knew she should have been afraid. Knew she should have run.

Yet never in her life had she experienced something so magical; never in her life had she witnessed something so beautiful.

She brushed her lips against his then shifted her body inside his warm embrace, unable to look away from the blue light emanating from his arm.

“You taste like blood; and pain.” She said.

He fought his anger, as he tried to reassure himself that she wasn’t the source of his own nightmares. Tried to savor the taste of her lips on his lips but the moment had already passed him by; the gesture had been bittersweet – sour and, above all things, not meant to be his.

“So do you, Amélie.” That was all he could say. He closed his eyes as he prayed for his dragon to be benevolent. He knew there was no turning back now; the beast was struggling – it wanted out; it needed out. Hanzo held on tight to her with his free hand, her mouth agape, contemplating the man fighting the spirit. When the beast appeared her irises turned blue; the reflection of its perfect shape embedded inside her bewildered gaze. It all happened so fast. The dragon was gone before she could bring her mind to fully understand what was going on: the man and the beast were but a single being; intertwined in a divine sense of protection for the archer to be safe from the world outside; to be safe from the biggest threat of all: himself.

As the light faded, though not yet completely, the residual blue of the creature shone its light across his skin. The spectacular carnival of shades, shadows and color was vivid before her eyes. Amélie leaned in closer, gently brushing Hanzo’s chin with her forehead and stretched one of her arms – her fingers reaching out for that light; reaching out for that blue.

It wasn’t the same blue, she knew. It didn’t mean the same – his colors and her colors, even if similar, were not the same.

The archer bit his bottom lip the second he felt her hand landing on his still bright blue arm. She was fascinated by the beast and all its shades of blue. It stung. It hurt. It was a pain she couldn’t quite describe, not with words – it was a kind of torture she was sure, wasn’t meant to be endured by a simple mortal.

As the blue light disappeared completely, the woman removed her hand from his arm and took a good look at it: a bloody palm was all she could see but that wasn’t all; the effects of her romancing the dragon had also marked him, traces of her were still scattered across his arm – her blood on his skin.

She looked him in the eye, then.

Silence had never said so much.

.

.

.

**VII – Tenses (imperfectpastfuture)**

December found them rather quickly.

Even when no more words had been spoken between them after that night, and Amélie’s training sessions had ended due to her evident lack of interest, the snowy season finally had come for everyone to take a break. None of the members of the new Overwatch remained there, in Gibraltar, during those days. They all had a destination – a friend they were longing to see; a family to go back to.

Amélie was the first to leave.

She walked around Paris for days, trying to remember the moments she had spent with Gérard. Her trail of memories and lost instants led her straight to his grave – there she kneeled down, her hands on her own chest.

_Gérard Lacroix; treasured friend, beloved husband._

She collected herself from the ashes of a grief she couldn’t even remember. Of all the missing pieces of the puzzle that was her past, Gérard’s grave was the first solid clue to finding who she was meant to be now. No longer the loving wife; no longer the deadly sniper. Maybe an agent of good; maybe the one to finish what Gérard had started, maybe the one to hunt them down – the real masterminds behind Gérard’s cruel execution – and make them pay for what they had done to him – and  _her_.

Hanzo packed his bags ceremoniously and traveled to South America.

Her words still rang in his ears with the vehemence of everything that is undeniable:

_“You’ve already been here before, you’ve already lived your life according to the plans the Shimada clan had for you when you should have lived your life; you should have been the man you wanted to be, not the man they needed you to be.”_

It was time for the archer to dust off the one they had buried inside of him – time for the one he was meant to be to finally reach the outside, to breathe some air, to shape his body and his soul with the forms and the colors that should have been his and his alone.

He started with the outside.

He cut his hair, and he even got a piercing: a nose bridge. There was even an earring adorning the contour of his face now.

Then it was time for the inside.

It was time to try the traditions of a different culture; time to wander the streets without a clear destination, without a hurried pace. It was time for spicy food and forbidden sweets.

He didn’t think of her during his trip. His new liberty was all he could see; displayed right in front of his eyes. Until that evening, as he was making his way back to the hotel where he was staying at. That cake caught his eye; so tempting and nearly self-indulgent.

There was something comforting about pastries, he mused, smiling quietly to himself.

Like simple pleasures, like ordinary sins.

Chocolate, whipped cream and strawberries. Nothing more, nothing less.

Alone in his room, the archer fantasized about the idea of not going back to Gibraltar – of traveling the world alone, trying to find a deeper sense of introspection that could, in time, reunite him with himself. The vigorous, renewed version of himself he was discovering was full of surprises; going back to a life of duty and obligations seemed vague and pointless now. He looked down and grinned softly: Genji had done such incredible things to have him near – his brother had gone to such extraordinary lengths for them to be finally reunited. Perhaps Overwatch wasn’t the best option for them, but it clearly meant something to Genji.

With time – and patience – it could mean something to him too.

.

.

.

**VIII – Time and place**

 

_“On s'est connu, on s'est reconnu,_

_On s'est perdu de vue, on s'est r'perdu d'vue_

_On s'est retrouvé, on s'est réchauffé,_

_Puis on s'est séparé.”_

 

When Hanzo returned to Gibraltar, it was already February. He had clearly taken his time; had explored his every color, his every shape. The younger ones smiled at his new looks, a sight that meant that they actually approved of his detachment from all those things that had defined him before. The older ones were not exactly fond of piercings – they could live with the tattoo; they understood its meaning and its importance. But piercings and earrings…

The archer smiled tenderly as he made his way back to his designated room. The feeling was surprising: even if he still didn’t feel home, this new arrival was making him feel more at ease than the first time they had opened their doors for him. No longer mistaken for a piece of furniture, the Japanese sniper soon found himself realizing that maybe it was the first step.

Unlike before, now he was somebody. From that point on, it was completely up to him to make them feel comfortable around him.

He rapidly resumed his daily routine of training and exercises. Even if it was colder outside, he still chose to spend his nights facing the bay, alone with his thoughts.

He saw her many times around the kitchen. Saw her talking to the rest of the agents over breakfast; he even saw her joining their table for dinner most nights. Her politeness was still there, embellishing her innate sense of elegance yet no words were spoken – it was clear, after that night, things had changed between them. She didn’t need him anymore: according to Winston, she was now training under Ana’s indefatigable tutelage. She was finally progressing, and soon she would be able to join them on their missions. She had finally found her place – it was time for him to do the same.  

He was meditating with Genji that evening. Even if his brother had chosen a different spot, Hanzo had no choice but to admit that the view from that side of the building was absolutely captivating. The blue bay, seen from the outside of the fuel storage unit, offered a quiet view of the waters below them. The sun was setting on the horizon when Mercy came looking for Genji.

The cyborg ninja stood up and walked towards the doctor. The smile on Angela’s face was enough for the archer to understand she wasn’t there to talk about medicine or anything that could be considered as remotely clinical. They moved away from Hanzo, yet their conversation reached the archer’s ears nonetheless:

“I got you some chocolates, Genji. Swiss; they’re the best.”

“Thank you, Angela. Perhaps… you could share them with me?”

Even when Genji’s face was covered by his helmet, Hanzo assumed his younger brother was smiling under his visor. Genji accepted the little box of chocolates that Angela had bought for him – then leaned in closer, and added:

“I have some chocolates for you too… not Swiss.”

The woman sighed, a sound Hanzo wasn’t expecting to hear.

“I suppose it would have to do. Thank you, Genji.” With that, the doctor left. In a matter of seconds, Genji was kneeling down right next to his older brother. One artificial index finger crossed the distance between them and landed on Hanzo’s lips, as if begging his brother not to say a word about the scene he had just witnessed.

The archer nodded, still unable to contain his laughter.

“Any chocolates today, brother?” the cyborg ninja asked as he got up to leave; one of his hands landing on his older brother’s shoulder.

“Those were your amusements. Not mine.” Even when he wasn’t trying to sound harsh his voice was still judgmental and definitive. Genji patted Hanzo’s shoulder lightly before turning away to leave. The archer stayed there, by himself, only the tender sounds of the waters moving below the stones remained there, to keep him company.

He had never been interested in such a day.

Yet that day, when he got up in the morning, he had left the facility in order to find a clear destination. A bakery. Something so mundane, so basic. He bought the cake and left it by her door – no note, no message. Even when he knew he was not Gérard, he still hoped she remembered her late husband’s code:

Chocolates meant  _I missed you_ ; the cake… the cake was more of a heartfelt  _I’m sorry_.

He heard her heels approaching. The unmistakable sounds of her presence were hard to ignore. He didn’t stand up; didn’t look over his shoulder. Eyes fixed on the waves before him, and the unreachable horizon growing darker, blurrier by the minute.

“So, this is where you hide now,” Amélie said as she sat down beside him.

“This is where I come when I’m feeling lonely.”

“So, this is where you  _live_  now.” She smiled.

A short-lived hmmm escaped his throat to express his disapproval. Broken pasts and women with an attitude had never been his forte.

“I’m just going to assume you’re not currently looking for a roommate, then.”

They stayed like that for a while – sitting in silence, welcoming the night.

“Thank you, Hanzo.” Her voice broke the spell even when her eyes were still absent, as if she was actually trying to reach that distant horizon stretching itself before them. It was her very first Valentine’s Day as a widow – as a  _conscious_  widow.

“I do remember Genji.” He confessed. “His favorite color is…”

“Green.” Amélie interrupted him.

“No, it’s actually orange. He was always a real  _player_  with the ladies, even when most of his porn was animated…” His confession made her laugh and he laughed too, finally relaxed. “One day, when we were little, our mother asked us what we wanted to be in the future… I told her I wanted to be a good  _kumicho_ , I couldn’t see another path for me; I was already indoctrinated… But Genji wasn’t; Genji said he wanted to be an astronaut. And our mother told him: “What are you going to do up there, so high up in space, all by yourself?” He scratched the back of his head, looked her in the eye, and said: “Then I’m going to be a pilot. The sky’s not as high as space; plus I wouldn’t be alone on a plane with all the passengers. I think he was five; maybe six.” He reminisced. “Looking back, I guess she was only trying to protect us from all those things the clan had in store for us.”

“I’m sure she was,” she said, as she cupped his hands with her own. She stood up after a while and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. “See you around, Hanzo.” She whispered as she walked away.

“See you around, Amélie.” He whispered back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:
> 
> “We knew each other, we recognized ourselves,  
> We lost sight of one another; we lost sight of one another  
> We found ourselves, we warmed up,  
> Then we broke up.”
> 
> From Jeanne Moreau’s – Le Tourbillon De La Vie


	2. The Second Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 76’s rather radical take on justice had brought her back to her own room; to the bed she had once shared with the man she loved – to the very feeling she herself had been forced to destroy. 
> 
> In the blink of an eye she had lost everything – Morrison’s tough determination had made her witness the most iconic image of her own past, like a silent, helpless spectator forced to watch the reincarnation of their own worst nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, welcome to the second part of the saga, I promise you won’t have to wait another 6 months before the next chapter is out... It took me such a long time to finish this second act, surely longer than I thought, and even so, I ended up dividing the chapter in two because I had 12.000+ words already and I thought it was long enough. 
> 
> Anyway, now that it’s posted, let me tell you that this chapter follows the same structure of the previous one: it’s divided into different sections, the sections are (of course) in progressive order and you can read each section as a little story.  
> The events of this act take place two months after the end of chapter one. 
> 
> Warning: NSFW content up ahead. (Even if nothing too explicit was written for this chapter, I still felt the need to warn you, guys)
> 
> I sincerely hope you enjoy your reading! Feedback, as always, is highly appreciated. 
> 
> Love, L.

Variations on a Theme

Act II

**The Second Awakening**

* * *

_“His contagious conviction that our love was unique and desperate infected me with an anxious sickness; soon we would learn to treat one another with the circumspect tenderness of comrades who are amputees, for we were surrounded by the most moving images of evanescence, fireworks, morning glories, the old, children. But the most moving of these images were the intangible reflections of ourselves we saw in one another's eyes, reflections of nothing but appearances, in a city dedicated to seeming, and, try as we might to possess the essence of each other's otherness, we would inevitably fail.”_

_Angela Carter ― A Souvenir of Japan_

* * *

.

.

.

**I - Hero**

He was silent, as if absent, staring at her from a comfortable distance. If she hadn’t known exactly who that man was, she would have easily thought that he was lazy, expecting the woman to do all the work as he simply watched the time go by… But then she knew, for she quickly recognized the true identity carefully hidden behind that visor: there was something else behind his lack of words – a certain apathy, a given discord rapidly transpiring his evident mistrust.

Yet the woman knew better than to trust her own senses, knew better than to succumb to his ill-advised pantomimes: no, he wasn’t absent, and he definitely wasn’t lazy; he wasn’t just trying to watch the hours fly by ever so lightly. There was more to him than meets the eye, she was certain. His silence meant so much more than mere somberness and indifference.

_Shelter._

His silence, in a way, also meant shelter – even if his silence could only contain the man himself alone, far and detached from her existence, and barricaded inside his own thoughts.

His soundless words seemed to reverberate all around her.

His was a twisted kind of silence, the woman pondered. Still, it was well received by her tired ears. Still, it was appreciated by her and her newborn senses.

But it just wasn’t like Hanzo’s silence; the nothingness of complete understanding the archer had meticulously crafted just for her and that she had grown to love during their cold nights in Gibraltar. That man, albeit still tormented by his past, was the only man she had ever known that was fully capable of sharing her passion for silence.

Silence, for most individuals, was essentially uncomfortable.

People would often think of silence as the tremulous sign that something’s not right. There would be questions, and hundreds of loud speculations, all in order to kill that goddamned silence. Hanzo’s love for silence was her own love for the element, in a way, as they would both embrace the tranquility of a peaceful, voiceless night. Hanzo would never try to hide behind his own silence for he had no reason to, at least not when she was around. Hanzo would cherish it, just like she herself would. He would never ask her if something was wrong; if her complete lack of phonemes was actually hiding something else: apathy, discord, even resentment.

Hanzo understood silence. Probably, like no-one else could.

Even better than Gerard had ever been able to understand back then – though this, of course, she would never say. Not with words, yet not even with silence.

But this twisted, sickening lack of sounds still echoing words of mistrust all around her was making it hard for the woman to concentrate.

She sighed clumsily through parted lips, a futile attempt at breaking that deafening silence of his – but to no avail. As soon as the air had left her mouth the same old disturbing silence came to embrace her once again, causing her to curse under her breath.

Hanzo would have been the perfect man for the job.

This older, tougher man, standing just a few meters behind her with his back glued against the wall and his arms folded over his broad chest was not the man she would have wanted to accompany her nervous, anxious bones during her very first mission as a reformed Overwatch agent – But Ana’s words, quickly ruling out the Japanese archer from the very beginning and stating that there was “no real need for the team to be composed by only two snipers” felt like a cold shower against her skin.

The mission was simple enough, that much was true – that’s why they had decided it would be a fine chance for the woman to finally step out into the world again and show what she was truly capable of. Athena had successfully tracked the exact date and location where a meeting between two low-ranked Talon operatives was about to happen. The small team required for the mission was not meant to engage in battle – they were simply supposed to gather as much information as possible; the task, per se, was simply meant to be just another small step in the never-ending crusade against Talon.

But when Ana ruled out Hanzo, Amelie braced herself and hoped for the best, even when she couldn’t understand the decision. If the mission was so simple, if they weren’t even supposed to engage in combat, why couldn’t he be the one working with her? Maybe Tracer would have been a better pick, or perhaps McCree. If looking for subtlety, Genji would have been a fine choice too… but when the old man raised his hand and took a step forward, volunteering for the job, Amelie felt the blood inside her veins begin to freeze all over again.

She never liked him.

Not then, when he was the adored poster boy, and one of Gerard’s best friends. And definitely not now.

As expected, Ana agreed with him rather quickly: the vigilante seemed capable enough for such simple assignment. A resourceful, skillful man with an innate sense of leadership. An experienced old dog that was going to test Amelie’s truest reasons: he wasn’t only interested in finding out whether or not the former Talon operative was ready to strike again – the only thing he was actually trying to unveil was Amelie’s most intimate sense of loyalty, he was only trying to test her to see if she was worth his time and trust – and furthermore, he was surely going to use the mission as a way to corroborate whether the woman knew about his true identity or not.

The elephant in the room, she knew…

The older agents seemed comfortable enough around him so Amelie was pretty sure that Ana, Reinhardt, Torbjörn and even Winston knew who this vigilante truly was. The younger kids seemed to pay no mind. Yet the ones in the middle, like Angela, Tracer, Pharah, the younger Shimada, McCree and many, many more were still in the dark.

Hanzo, as a brand new recruit, wouldn’t have any reasons to suspect his identity.

But Amelie’s case was an entirely different story. She had known him back then. The only question remaining inside his head: could her still struggling memory decipher who he was?

“The meeting’s over,” The woman said, her words trying to breathe some life into that somber motel room. Yet the man didn’t even flinch, he didn’t want to leave when the meeting came to an end. Without using a single word, he insisted they stayed right where they were so they could follow the agents, concealing his true intentions behind his completely unreadable expression. That damn visor could hide most anything from the rest of them, yet his voice would give him away every single time. Raspy, intrinsically masculine. Harsh, and eerily merciless.

Hence the silence…

He could fool everyone – everyone but her. Soldier 76 had sheltered his true identity in the shades and shadows of the vigilante who doesn’t give a damn about the law. But that reformed woman, the one facing the hurricane of old memories rushing back at her at every turn with the virulence of everything that’s new, was perceived as a threat by him.

She had once been the wife of a long-lost friend. She knew things about him, things she could tell, in case she still remembered them – about the real man he had been before that not even his closest friends knew.

The silent stare of a wife, hovering over him and Gerard like a camera capturing their every move, like a radar monitoring their every adventure… a radar they could not escape from.

The woman paid no mind to his wordless suggestions and quickly reached into her bag for her phone to contact the extraction team. Yet he snatched the device from her hand, tossing it aside.

He couldn’t talk to her now, couldn’t afford such luxury. His unmistakable voice would give him away every time, he knew.

That’s why he would always stop talking whenever she was around.

If she was trying to remember him, he was not willing to help her.

He hadn’t liked her back then, and her recent past as a Talon assassin was only deepening Jack’s profound mistrust towards that woman.

Amelie picked up her phone and placed it back inside her bag. Then she walked back to the window. Still watching the world from her scope, the woman witnessed the entire scene play out before her eyes: both Talon agents were now leaving the cafeteria – a crowded place, of course – stopping only to shake hands on the doorway. The younger agent started to walk northwest yet the older agent, the tall, dark-haired man who seemed to be in his early forties, went back inside the hotel the second his partner was gone.

With a minuscule ‘tsk’ 76 demanded her attention. The meeting had been briefer than expected and, if the man had to be honest, the agents had been careful enough not to reveal a single thing about Talon or any of their upcoming operations. But the older agent’s uncanny behavior seemed promising enough, to say the least, and that was a fact they both could agree on.

Understanding what he was trying to explain without words, the woman sat back down and resumed her surveillance. Overwatch had wired the entire building just in case, from the fancy cafeteria downstairs to the very last room in that hotel. Embracing Jack’s silence as her own, the woman observed as the agent disappeared from her sight only to appear again, seconds later, when the elevator doors opened again, welcoming him to the fifth floor. A short walk was all it took for the man to find his final destination: room 535 but he didn’t knock on the door – surprisingly enough, he had his own key.

Amelie quickly busied herself, narrating the scenes she was witnessing for her partner to know exactly what was going on inside that room across the street, but the words faded from her mouth the second she understood what was actually happening.

A woman was waiting for the man.

She was considerably younger than he was, wearing black lingerie and quickly throwing her arms around his neck. The man kissed her passionately, his hands landing on her waist with such unprecedented urgency.

Two fingers tapped on Amelie’s shoulder, trying to get her to speak again. Yet her constricted throat wouldn’t let the words flow free. Even when they both were hearing every single sound coming from that room thanks to the many microphones Overwatch had set all over the place the day before, truth was that neither the woman nor the man were actually speaking. The symphony of sounds that Jack was being able to hear belonged in the soft-spoken world of privacy and intimacy. Such sounds, Amelie pondered, did not need to be explained. Least of all, to Jack Morrison.

She still remembered him, in the back of her confused yet not so clouded mind – the man he had been back then; one of Gerard’s closest friends. The poster boy, the heartthrob with the baby blue eyes and the devilish smile… the one always trying to convince Gerard to go for  _a couple drinks_  after each mission; the one always so confident, so irritatingly confident.

She paid no mind to his insistence. As her sight went back to the scope facing the window her mind traveled back to that distant time.

How many times had she heard that man say to her own husband that he could do better? That settling down for a  _ballerina wannabe_ was not the right choice for a man like him? That she was surely after his money, that he should have never told her about his real occupation…

“Shoot.” His unmistakable voice, finally exhibiting his true identity, caught her unaware. She had never thought he would dare speak to her but the command he had just voiced, the harsh course of action he was willing to follow was enough for the woman to stand up and turn around.

“What for?” She demanded, determined.

For a brief instant, Amelie could have sworn that a bitter smirk was taking over his face. Even if it was impossible for the sniper to tell if the gesture was real or not now that the visor and the mask were covering most of Morrison’s aged visage, it was easy for the woman to image the same disdainful smirk he had given her on countless occasions in the past.

“We got what we wanted – information.” She continued, “I know it’s not much, but our job here is done.”

As she stepped away from the window and motioned towards the door his hand landed on her shoulder, stopping her in place.

“He’s Talon.” He said.

She looked down, confused.

“He’s the enemy.” 76 stated 

“They said  _do not engage_.” Her voice, colder than ever, reached his eardrums in just a matter of seconds. “What are you trying to do now? If you wanted to kill them off why didn’t you shoot them when both agents were out in the street after the meeting was over? Why did you wait?” she struggled under his touch until she released herself from his grip, “If you wanted to eliminate  _your_  enemies why would you want to kill one agent, and spare the other?”

A fleeting laugh escaped his lips, she should have seen this coming; should have been more careful.

“ _My_  enemies?”

His simple words made it crystal clear for Amelie: it wasn’t a matter of  _us_  versus  _them_  anymore, it had never been. Morrison was not interested in the mission; he couldn’t care less about the little information they had managed to gather.

Morrison was only interested in her.

He was testing  _her_ , studying  _her_. Like a lab rat, diminished and limited under somebody else’s scrutinizing gaze, he just wanted to see her in action; see her crack under pressure, make sure her true intentions would be bare right in front of him for his eyes to judge whether she was worthy of their trust or not…

 _As if it was up to him to decide…_  

Feeling like a cornered beast, with her back trapped against the wall, the woman massaged her own temples trying to relax. No matter what Jack was trying to prove, she just couldn’t bring herself to kill that man, regardless of his evident Talon connection. That man, just like her, deserved a second chance.

“Jack,” she said, even when the sound of his name sounded too unrealistic, too unnatural for the both of them to even try to acknowledge the man behind those four letters, “we got what we wanted, shouldn’t we…”

Morrison contemplated her expression change as the sounds coming from the microphones interrupted Amelie’s words. Her mouth agape; her breathing, agitated and uneven. Her mind, long gone and drifting helplessly towards a past that was hers no more. Sounds of love and lust, intertwined with scattered pieces of dialogue, summoning the revelation - the woman and the man making love in the room across the street were not husband and wife.

She was his mistress. She was forbidden.

“What’s wrong?” 76 asked, mildly concerned.

His question only brought her closer to the edge. The sickening parade of images she was crafting inside her convoluted mind was clouding her judgment: now she couldn’t bring herself to envision that cheating pig as somebody deserving of a second chance – the idyllic notion of marriage she had cherished for so long was simply too sacred for her to justify what the man was doing to his wife.

“Amelie?” 

The voice trying to summon her now wasn’t helping at all. How many times had Morrison tried to convince Gerard that she wasn’t woman enough for him?

She walked back to the window, embraced the brand new rifle that Overwatch had recently given her and let her fingers find the trigger.

“Widowmaker, wasn’t it? Your call sign while working for Talon? Let’s find out whether it was an accurate name for you or not.”

_Widowmaker._

The one that breaks families.

The one who tears apart the solemn bond between a husband and his wife.  

The one that spreads her own corruption, the rotting symptoms of her own sins, all over the place.

The one who contaminates others with her own sad, sad story… 

_No._

_No more._

She stood up and took a few steps back. Slowly, hesitatingly.  She couldn’t afford to cave in now. Wasn’t that exactly what he wanted? To prove that she wasn’t worth their time, that the Widowmaker was still pulsating inside of her, waiting for this new version of Amelie to finally invite her to come out and play?

Past the fear, and beyond the repulsion she was feeling, she witnessed the sounds beginning to change once again. Endless symphonies of lust, like a tidal wave reaching for her, were now caressing her confused ears.  _The second awakening_. Sex, in its purest, simplest form; feelings she hadn’t felt in such a long time – fingers roaming, hands reaching, arms soaring in the night.

 _Gerard_.

Gerard had been the last man she had slept with, the last person she had allowed to explore the meridians of her body. The ancient touch of his loving agony, now buried underneath the thick veil of time, in the shape of countless years she had lost in the bonfire of oblivion. Years and years; entire seasons of her life that could never be recovered – a missing lover, a broken family, an entire universe of missing moments, like fragments and figments of her imagination, scattered somewhere in between dreams and reality. The feeling now, intoxicating and brand new, was trying to summon the woman she had once been. It was trying to wake her up from her slumber and guide her towards a light she couldn’t quite recognize anymore. The face of desire, blurry and distorted just like her own future, offered no true solace for her troubled soul.

It was like watching a faceless ghost hover over her and cover her bones in its complex, burning white halo. The melting fusion of bodies coalescing into one common anima, whilst turning and tossing in bed, equally calling on angels and demons – carnality, it seemed, had a face she couldn’t quite recall but, at the same time, it still felt oh so eerily familiar.

He watched her in silence; saw her longing for something that wasn’t there, thriving almost maniacally, raptured inside the eclipsing symphonies they were both hearing.

Still, she looked so forlorn, he thought. So confused by the sounds and the memories… So disoriented by all those things she had been forced to leave behind, each and every single thing she had yet to feel again…

She saw him walk towards the window, positioning himself behind the scope; his experienced hands reaching for the trigger, activating the deadly mechanism – taking a life.

“No…” she whispered, brokenhearted. The man, lying dead on the bed now, with his arms spread out in front of his horrified lover, was the vision of a past so familiar it could still brand her skin with such impeccable wrath.

_Blood. Blood on their bed._

Amelie’s eyes, fixed on the bloody bedsheets, remembered the echoes of her own story. How she had killed her own husband in his sleep.

_Blood. Blood on their bed._

76’s rather radical take on justice had brought her back to her own room; to the bed she had once shared with the man she loved – to the very feeling she herself had been forced to destroy. 

In the blink of an eye, she had lost everything – Morrison’s tough determination had made her witness the most iconic image of her own past like a silent, helpless spectator forced to watch the reincarnation of their own worst nightmare.

A second bullet traveled from one room to the other, ending the shaken woman instantaneously. And there both lay, the unfaithful agent and his forbidden lover, naked and covered in blood, in a bed only destined to grow colder with each passing moment. The fire, extinguished.

She didn’t say a word when Morrison grabbed her by her nearest arm and dragged her out of that room. Words were far beyond her now, and completely out of her reach. The audacity of that man… using her own rifle to end those people… her brand new rifle, the one Ana had given her,  _her new beginning_ … – he had corrupted her new beginning.

As they were walking down the corridor, Amelie looked over her shoulder only to see that murdered love just one last time. Like a scene of broken passion, tainted red and perpetually doomed to die the most cynical death over and over again.

Maybe that was the message, after all, she thought.

Perhaps there was no such thing as a new beginning for people like her. 

.

.

.

**II – Name (Pray tell)**

Relief came quickly, in the shape of an improvised extraction team. Hovering above them, the small ship sent by Overwatch was not only going to take them back to Gibraltar; it was also a reminder of just how small and almost insignificant that mission had been. Two young men were waiting for them, following Winston’s orders as expected, dressed up in their brand new navy blue uniforms. A touch of distinction, Amelie thought bitterly – Just like the blue of her skin had mutated and turned into something new, the old blue that had ruled the organization in the past had changed now; yet it seemed darker now, denser than before.

The two aspiring agents, completely oblivious to the obvious discord between 76 and Lacroix, were simply there to accomplish their mission: get them back home safely; please their superiors and nothing more.

It was better that way – if they had sent Tracer, for example, the speedster should have noticed… yet these two kids, simply following orders and trying their best to become the new teacher’s pets were some sort of panacea for both troubled soldiers.

They would ask no questions, after all.

Jack took a seat behind the pilot but didn’t stay there for long. As soon as they were airborne he unfastened his seatbelt and walked to the back of the ship where the ex-Talon operative was sitting on her own.

He kneeled before her, observing those vacant eyes staring aimlessly at the heavens above, and all around. Many minutes passed – stretching the very concept of time into a whole new dimension. Her silence, so startling and calm at the same time, was beginning to get to him.

“Are you alright?” 76 asked for the hundredth time, trying to make amends. No matter just how much he had disliked the woman back then, and beyond his current, persistent mistrust towards her, truth was that if she was going to stay with Overwatch, antagonizing with her would prove itself pointless in time. They were on the same side now, he knew. Yet the woman still didn’t say a word; it was painfully clear that the storm inside was making it impossible for her to muster whatever it took for her words to escape the prison of her tight lips. When she looked over her shoulder and graced him with a bittersweet grin her eyes could finally see his uneasiness growing stronger by the minute – of course, Morrison was never going to understand silence, she found herself pondering once more. Not in the way that Hanzo could…

Hanzo understood silence, he really did.

It nearly broke her heart to find him waiting for her, standing all alone by the hangar door. The dark bags surrounding his eyes were enough to let her know that he had stayed awake, waiting for the ship to bring her back home. He was nervous, she could tell, using his silence to shelter all his doubts.

She felt compelled to wrap her arms around him the second she set foot on the ground. Perhaps the gesture could not only quiet his fears but also mute the many ghosts talking loudly in her head. Hands reaching for his neck, shapes falling into place for the briefest and yet longest of times.

It was hard to explain – but she belonged there. Not in Gibraltar, not even in the organization. But in those arms. In that silence.

Even when he had never made such demands it was painful for the woman to admit that she still couldn’t give him exactly what he wanted from her; that her silence and her borderline naïve affection would have to do. That the only thing she needed from him was his silent complicity; that even if they had created the weakest bond of all, she had never felt so safe. The fragility that such a strong man could provide was fascinating and frightening at the same time – keeping her near, almost gravitating towards him yet never fully landing.

He could sense the tension between the former Talon agent and the vigilante. It was palpable, menacing – disquieting like the dark clouds that precede the most vicious, villainous hurricane.

76 was walking behind them, the echo of his heavy footsteps a constant reminder that they were not alone. Once inside the facility both Hanzo and Amelie began to sense the hurried, quick steps guiding the man through the corridors – debriefing sessions were meant to be boring only this time, that man was tacitly offering a race and Amelie knew, instinctively, that refusing to join him was not even an option. Just as her own heels began to click harder against the concrete the archer grabbed her by the wrist and paused her march, even if only briefly.

Perhaps it was better that way, to let 76 go first. To just let him talk, tell them everything he had seen in her during the mission. She was strong, capable, confident… at least those were the words Hanzo would use to describe her now after the long path she had walked ever since her recovery. The image of that initial woman inside his head, mutating rapidly as days went by and reshaping her - from her imaginary fire he had envisioned in his mind to her resolution not to touch her own weapon – was no more than the shadow of the woman she had become under Ana’s tutelage.

He stayed by her side when the vigilante’s body disappeared behind the door, his hands resting on the sides of her waist ever so gently.

“Why are you so nervous?” the archer asked, noticing her slender figure shivering under his touch.

She had grown used to those hands of his, he knew, even if his touch had never dared to explore her beyond the crumbs she would always throw his way.

It took her a moment to find his eyes.

And yet another moment, longer, duller than the previous one, to collect her thoughts.

“I’m curious about my report,” she said, “76 was sent to supervise me, so…”

She lied, but only partially. What else was she supposed to tell him? He had his faith in her, that much was painfully obvious – and his unquenchable thirst knew no boundaries: it was not merely romantic, it was also profoundly linked to a professional desire; the need to know that she was ready to become a full agent, that she was willing and able to fight the good fight – that the darkness that had enveloped her in the past was gone for good, that there was only light ahead.

She looked down, as if ashamed of her half-assed truths.

Yet she couldn’t find the strength to tell him what had happened in that room – that 76 had shattered her balance with just two words; that the true identity hidden behind his voice had shaken her from within, igniting the fire of memories she thought lost to the agonizing flames of oblivion… that the scene taking place in the room across the street had awakened something inside, the feeling now unstoppable and stirring deep within. That the final scene with the lovers sleeping forever in a sea of blood would only haunt her endlessly during the nights, like a missing piece in the tenebrous puzzle that was her own past…

When minutes stretched themselves across the fabric of time, she held on tight to him, trying to find an anchor in the tranquil silhouette standing beside her.  One by one they stack upon her shoulders, the doubts in her mind speaking of renewed uncertainties: what was taking them so long? She had done her job well after all – at least, the job they had assigned to her. What had happened after that could only belong in the convoluted mind of 76 and in his twisted, sick sense of justice, and even if the man had succeeded in his attempts of watching her crack under pressure, the woman was still positive it would not be enough to stain the good she had done.

Tension began to call her name when she noticed they had an audience. Rising from the pit of her stomach and constricting her throat all those younger faces were prying in on them as if anticipating each possible verdict.

Hanzo let go of her, even when his concerns were placed somewhere else: among the many faces surrounding them now, only one was missing.

“So, how did it go?” Mei asked, rubbing her hands together in anxious anticipation.

He could see how their friendly pressure was working against her. Their kind-hearted questions were suffocating her.

He looked sideways one last time, still trying to find the missing face amongst the sea of joviality displayed right before him – but to no avail.

But when the cowboy touched Amelie’s hands ever so slightly and greeted her, the unwanted jolt of energy opened up the gates for her uneasiness to come to life. One last thought crossed her mind as she walked through the door: the mission had been simple, if Jack was taking that much time to debrief it, then it surely meant he was trying to convince the older members of the organization that she wasn’t a good asset. Still, Overwatch was small and illegal – but if they were truly determined to seek international validation once more they couldn’t afford to exclude competent agents based on personal disputes.

Amelie left the door opened as she pinned her feet to the ground – the young spectators that had gathered around the two snipers followed her closely inside the conference room, some of them were even craning their necks trying to, at least, get a glimpse of the facial reactions going on inside that room. Hanzo stayed where he was, his back still glued to the wall, waiting for the scene to finally end.

As expected, the faces waiting on the other side of the door welcomed the group with stunned expressions. No matter how much had changed, some things were bound to remain the same: respect for protocols, still at the very top of that list.

76 stood up the second he saw her. His hands at the side of his waist, and that petulant smirk of his adorning his face once again.

Ana was about to speak when she spotted her daughter’s velvety black hair among the crowd that had gathered around the door. Pinching the bridge of her nose, the old sniper let out a loud sigh and placed both her hands on the table, staring intently at 76.

“This is what I was just telling you about,” the vigilante said calmly, even when the general atmosphere of the room had been strained by tension. “Her skills are intact, but I wouldn’t trust her instincts on the field. She lets her emotions overwhelm her – she lacks control…”

A worried Angela interrupted him, her arms quickly making way through the curious crowd:

“Are you implying that there could be some problems regarding Amelie’s neural functionality after removing Talon’s reconditioning?”

76 folded his arms over his chest and the disdainful smirk on his face disappeared as if it had never existed.

“You are the doctor. I just gave my professional opinion about her recent performance.” He said, “I’m not saying that we shouldn’t have done what we did – she deserved to be free of Talon’s conditioning, and I’m positive we made the world a safer place by erasing the Widowmaker. But perhaps we shouldn’t have recruited her. Maybe we should have just let her be free to live her own life.” His tone, more amicable now, was trying to make amends with the harshness of his speech. “Maybe that’s what we should do: let her go. Let her be free.”

“If we let her go – if we let her be free, Talon will try to get her back,” Winston affirmed.

“We could keep an eye on her, guard her, make sure she’s safe.” 76 offered.

A long gap of silence filled the air. But once again, that deafening sound had nothing to do with the pleasant lack of sounds that only the archer could provide. She looked over her shoulder, trying to find his face in the crowd – but he wasn’t there. Still, she could sense him near, could sense he was listening to that same silence.

And he was.

With his hands balled up into furious fists.

The old German crusader considered the words said by 76 – “That doesn’t sound like freedom to me…” He let out, contemplatively.

Standing by the door, nearly petrified by the words she had just heard, Amelie opened her mouth but no words left her lips – too many thoughts were swimming furiously inside her head, trying to even articulate them into reasonable sentences was beyond her now.

All eyes were on her now.

And the feeling was eerily disturbing.

The older members of Overwatch, still gathered around the large circular table, were staring at her with eyes tainted by doubt. The younger agents crowded together by the door were giving her looks of complete desolation, worry and concern now written all over their faces just as if she was a broken doll no one could repair.

76, making his way to the door, had played her right from the start.

As he walked past her, she finally allowed one of her hands to touch him.

“Why didn’t you save me?” She asked, her lifeless voice reverberating all across the room. “Before I could kill your friend, before I could hurt Ana?”

She took a step forward, shortening the distance between them.

“You saved so many people… why couldn’t you save me as well?” her voice, gradually coming to life, was beginning to sing the song they had tried not to listen to for so long. “You took this organization between your hands and toyed with it and everyone inside it until you broke it. Still, they take care of you – they _listen_ to you. I was treated like an animal when I first arrived here…” She paused for a moment, remembering her first days in Gibraltar. “The hero, the poster boy… the one who got the statue… where were you, _Jack Morrison_ , when we needed you the most?”

She could feel the crack dividing the ground beneath her feet.

She could feel the black void swallowing them all into such unreachable depths.

Pitch black, like night itself. Godless and sacred at the same time.

The fracture dividing them all, alive once again.

As she turned around and started to leave she could see the palpable doubts reflected all over their faces: the younger ones, the ones who hadn’t been around back in the day. Could see a million questions suffocating the ones in the middle: the ones who had cried for him, the ones who still missed him. Silence enveloped her shape then, encompassing the countless answers resting inside the souls and minds of the older members. The ones who knew. The ones who had chosen not to say a word.

She walked through the door, looking down.

She could see it: the fracture dividing the ground once more.

A brand new fracture.

The same old man. 

.

.

.

**III – Midnight Theorems I (The first night)**

As soon as she left the conference room, she began to wander aimlessly around the base until the moonlight became visible through the curtains. It was like visiting a ghost town, in a way, knowing that everyone was still inside that room, demanding explanations. A part of her felt sorry for them – the old and the young ones. The old ones would surely have to face reproach while the younger ones, the ones who had poured their hearts all over Morrison’s loss, were now sinking in a sea of useless tears.

They had mourned somebody who hadn’t died.

That man had walked right through the door, had looked them in the eye – and he had lied to them.

When every deserted corridor and every single closed door began to fully shape the labyrinth of twisted thoughts inside her head, her feet led her to the only place she knew she would feel welcome.

His room.

The chamber of his precious silence.

She knocked on his door and waited patiently for the archer to come to her. Grateful as she was that he hadn’t chased after her after leaving the conference room, now she was positive that the solace she was seeking could not be granted by anyone other than him. Sage, Shimada – had given her the time and space she needed, in the inconspicuous shape of his absence, molded inside his most metaphorical presence.

But she didn’t throw her arms around him when he opened the door. She simply motioned her dormant body inside his private room – a limited, sterile place where his ancient roots could only live in the shape of decorative souvenirs.

He let her use his shower and lent her one of the many training t-shirts Overwatch had given him.

“They must hate me now,” Amelie whispered, sitting down on his bed.

His body barely moved underneath the bedsheets. His eyes trained on his own hands, as if afraid to find her gaze.

“They have better things to worry about.” He said, sounding harsher than he would have wanted. Still, she knew he was right: before worrying about what she had done, they would have to learn how to trust each other again.

“But I caused this,” she sobbed, “All of this.”

“No,” his hand, leaving his stomach and landing gracefully on her nearest shoulder, made her turn around, “you exposed it.” She felt his hand pulling her body down, and closer to his. With a swift movement of her legs, the woman made her way into his bed, finally allowing her head to rest against his warm chest.

It felt natural, in a way, like the expected progression of their bond. It worked that way, or so it seemed, after nearly two months of getting closer and closer to each other. Almost intimately, yes - but not romantically. Loyally, yet not ruled by the paradigmatic voices of adoration. It still amazed her how, without having to use a single word, they had successfully put themselves in such a place. This time, the very first time when she would be asking him if she could stay, she wouldn’t even have to use words to let him know, and his approbation, mutually muted, would find her in return.

She had let her own cowardice blind her more than once – always on the verge of asking, always wanting – but never staying.

As Hanzo busied himself, tangling and untangling his fingers in her wet hair, the troubled woman closed her eyes for a brief moment, cherishing the soft ministrations and the immaculate silence the archer was giving her.

Still, his voice, softer than usual, brought her back to reality.

“What’s the story between you and that man?” Hanzo inquired.

She shifted in his arms, insecure.

“Do you know who that man really is?”

“I don’t know the story – but I know who Jack Morrison was.” Of course he knew, she figured. Being a former crime lord, a Yakuza man, he surely knew the names of the ones trying to take him down. Morrison, just like her own husband and the rest of the agents of Overwatch, had once been his enemies. “I thought he was dead.”

Her lips created a perfectly straight line and she soon found herself scoffing at the archer:

“That’s the problem with the people in Overwatch – they don’t like being dead for too long.”

He pulled her closer against his chest – the gesture more affectionate than romantic. Still, she stayed in the warmth he had to offer, savoring the manufactured familiarity of it all.

“They all came back,” she whispered, “Mei, Tracer, Jack, Ana, _your brother_ … and the list goes on. The only one who never made it back, the only one stupid enough to remain dead was Gerard.”

He offered her his renewed silence, the voiceless understanding she was seeking from him.

As expected, she didn’t have to ask him if she could stay and spend the night.

His arms and his silence, like a house he had built all around her to keep her safe, were eloquent enough for the both of them.

He truly seemed to be able to understand everything.

He really did.

He would have been the perfect man for the job.

.

.

.

**IV – The True Face of a Dragon**

A timid kiss landed on his cheek, as the tepid winds of a new day made the curtains dance almost as if a ghost had tried to whisper _hello_.

Early morning, she left his room in silence.

Dawn had barely begun to grace the rooftops with its yellowish incandescence. The disquieting tranquility of those corridors seemed to echo the laments of those hearts that had been broken by her careless revelation the day before.

It was weird, seeing the place like that for the very first time since her arrival – early morning was a ritual in itself; crowded corridors and the perpetual voices coming from each room to receive the brand new day were the most common elements anyone could find every single day, in the mundanity of Gibraltar.

Perhaps a name meant more than an identity, she pondered, as her ears began to receive the only sounds breaking the silence.

Tired footsteps, the dynamism of clicking metal against the concrete – armor, and youth, collided into one single being.

His brother.

Now she understood who he had been searching for the day before. It had been truly obvious: of all the faces that had gathered in front of the conference room, of all souls seeking answers – Genji hadn’t been one of them.

He was walking down the same corridor as her, only in the opposite direction.

He was walking towards her.

His head down, shoulders screaming for some rest.

He wasn’t wearing a mask this time. He was carrying his helmet in his hand, balancing the metal against yet more metal as his fingers danced before him.

She tried hard not to look. Tried hard not to stare. It could be potentially rude, she knew.

“Hello,” He said, as he walked on by. And his gentle voice guided her chin upwards, her eyes already searching – her education longing to reciprocate the cordial gesture.

She tripped as soon as her eyes explored his visage. Cold fingers landing gracefully at the sides of her shoulders, keeping her from falling.

He smiled, tenderly, before walking on by.

And there she stood, in the epicenter of that deserted corner of the base, looking over her shoulder, observing Genji disappear from her sight. The vision was already tattooed on her brain – his naked face, his warm sympathy still there, in spite of everything.

She felt the air leaving her mouth.

She would never be able to look at the Widowmaker right in the eye, but for the first time since meeting the archer, the very ghost haunting his troubled spirit had finally acquired a face. A scarred face, contaminated by the ashes of a pain that still refused to go away; a pain bound to remain by his side, defining his brother’s skin and deconstructing the ones they had been before.

It made her feel sad – to see the lie standing naked before her: both brothers were thinking they had found their freedom, they were thinking that, each in their own way, were making their own ways in life but that wasn’t true: Genji still was what Hanzo had made of him, and Hanzo was still what the clan had forced him to be. They would never be fully free of those darker specters: peace and liberty would forever be stained by the flags of their past.

Hanzo’s change was more physical than real – the man struggling beneath this renewed body was still struggling. And he would forever remain that way: struggling, fighting the one living underneath his own skin.

The beast she had seen, the blue of its wicked magnificence…

It was hard for the woman to acknowledge the face she had just seen for what it truly was but still she tried, until the thought became crystal clear: Genji’s scarred face was the real intervention of Hanzo in his brother’s life, and to find that face somehow mirroring the real intervention of Talon in her own life was making her feel uneasy now that the archer’s face had shown in the theater of her mind. It pained her to realize that all the connections the archer had been so adamantly trying to find between them were paling in comparison to the brand new bridge she had discovered: she could see her own hell imprinted vividly on Genji’s face. The wounds that would hurt them forever were real – like every single scar she had seen on that visage, like each one of the tattoos illustrating her otherwise immaculate body.

Genji’s wounds were Hanzo’s testimony.

And the spiders crawling all over her skin were Widowmaker’s.

Every single feeling she held in her for the archer began to coalesce into one chaotic shade; like an unreadable prism, casting all colors at the same time and hurting her eyes.

The awakening had finally begun to take its toll on her.

So many feelings and emotions had been put to rest by Talon that now they all seemed to be struggling to get out. All those images she had seen, all those ones she had yet to see, were now walking past her in a perpetual gallery of mirages she could not fully understand – their shades and shadows tainting her world in colors she could not fully identify.

She sighed, almost soundlessly, then turned around and left.

.

.

.

**V – Selected Mistakes**

That dreadful day stretched itself through time for as long as humanly possible. Languid hours, filled with tension and reproach, contaminated the entire bay, trapping everyone inside its insidious cage.

She found him again that very same day, late at night, all alone in the kitchen with a smoky cup of green tea resting between his artificial fingers and with his elbows, as if defeated, resting on the lonely table before him.

Amelie walked up to him yet froze in place just a few inches away from the table before sinking down on the chair right in front of him, as if waiting for permission. It surprised her when the young ninja, instead of voicing an answer, simply reached the back of his skull, proceeded to remove his helmet and addressed her with his eyes.

There was an unexpectedly peaceful element inside his honeyed gaze – perhaps his time with Zenyatta had provided him with such a lovely trait. His eyes traveled back to the cup in front of him and then back up to the woman keeping him company now: without saying a single word the younger Shimada offered her his tea, extending his fingers parsimoniously in her direction.

His tea and his eyes, like silent offerings of his most intimate sort of peace, began to make her feel comfortable after such a long and miserable day.

“Why don’t you drink it yourself?” The woman questioned, as her fingers ventured the distance and reached out for the cup.

Genji shook his head in silence, before sighing softly.

“It was for Angela. But she’s not going to drink it. So why don’t you taste it, before it grows cold?”

The sweet scent of jasmine and green leaves mesmerized her for a brief moment.

“Where is Angela?”

Genji looked over his shoulder and back at Amelie’s curious stare. Then he signaled the second door to his left.

“Her room. Turns out I’m more of a _calm down_ kind of guy. Jesse is the true _consoling type_.”

She was confused by his simple elocution but chose not to ask any questions.

“So, what is it like?” He asked, casually, “Having to spend so much time with someone like Hanzo?”

There was a strange tone wrapped up around his voice – much like a subtle implication, or a rather sophisticated sense of bitterness.

“I don’t _have_ to spend time with him. I choose to – there’s a difference.” She offered quietly, once again choosing not to ask any questions, this time, regarding the true meaning of the words _someone like Hanzo_.

“I see…” He said in all simplicity, folding his arms over his chest and observing her as she finished her tea. “At least tell me how he’s been doing.”

She cocked her head to the side, lightly, taken aback by his sudden question.

“I brought him here because I wanted to have him near; see if the bond between brothers could be repaired, somehow.” He paused to offer her an intensified gaze, “But you’ve been taking up most of his time lately.”

It was hard for the woman to understand if he was being friendly or not. His words felt like an exceedingly intricate maze she could not escape from: one minute he was gentle and kind, the next one he felt bitter and sharp.

Perhaps the whole Morrison affair was beginning to take its toll on him too.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, raising both his hands in a defensive stance, “I think it’s good for him to spend some time with a woman – reminds me of when we were little, he would always scare them off with his uptight solemnity. If anything, I’m grateful you’re taking the time to _sentimentally educate_ him, especially considering you’ve been through a lot yourself.”

 _A sentimental education_ … Was there such a thing?

“We’re not sleeping together.” She rushed her answer.

Genji shrugged, unpreoccupied.

“I never said you were.”

None of the scars exhibited all over his face could masquerade the sultry implications of his gestures. Like a scarlet-colored flag, the former playboy made himself visible in the shape of that reconstructed existence of his.

“It’s the _creases_ of the language, don’t you agree?” he said, “Because you _are_ sleeping with my brother – or at least you slept with him, he told me that much. But you’re not _sleeping_ with him.”

In her mind, she pictured the broken lovers once again. Their blood had precipitated her answer. And now she had to pay for letting them get the best of her. She tried her best to formulate an intelligible answer, something, anything to say to him but she found herself coming up short every time – their bloody kind of love was still contaminating her every thought, and as the faces coalesced into just one big mess of red, both the archer and her dead husband found themselves trapped inside that room, the receding lights of their broken bodies slowly leaving her. The magnificent dragon, crimson and wounded, trying to soar through its painful last flight.

The ninja leaned in closer, as if he could actually see inside the furious images firing up her mental screen.

“Do you feel as if you’d be betraying him?” he asked, visibly moved, “Your late husband?” artificial fingers broke the distance separating them.

He cupped her hand with his own, with eyes about to rain, as if lost in a painful memory of his own.

“The first time feels like you’re backstabbing them – the ones we left behind.” He said tenderly. “You explore a new body and somehow you wish you could turn it into something else, a combination of both bodies, perhaps... You feel like apologizing to both: the memory you’re betraying and the one who’s actually with you.”

He stopped, abruptly, and removed his hand.

That door had been sealed for far too long. It was best for it to stay that way.

She watched him in silence, as he gradually regained his composure. He had just invited her into a blurry portion of his past that he clearly could not control – like a macabre pendulum swinging right before her stupefied eyes, his fractured story was almost hypnotizing her.

She saw his eyes, swimming into focus once again – a clear sight that knew no mist, that endured no hazy tragedies.  

“He told you I slept in his room last night?” She finally asked.

Genji nodded in silence, almost on the verge of thanking her for not trying to delve deeper into the ghost that had just dawned deep within him.

“It’s a good thing then, I guess,” She let out pensively, “If he managed to tell you that much, you must be bonding nicely. Even if it’s over me, and even if it’s in a rather indiscreet manner…”

He looked down, but not in shame. A tender smile took over his lacerated face, then. Brief, but unmistakably eloquent.

“I’m having a hard time coping with this Jack Morrison revelation. Seems I cannot bring myself to fully take it in stride.” He said, pensively, as his eyes darted around the room, finally breaking eye contact, “If I said something that made you upset or uncomfortable, I apologize.”

Amelie shook her head in silent contemplation. She didn’t know his story, and she knew she was in no position to ask him to open up to her and let her in. Still, the blazing truth he had said was setting her soul on fire: it did feel like a betrayal, she knew. Every touch, every shared moment of silence: it felt like backstabbing Gerard’s lifeless body. It was like killing him all over again.

She felt compelled to apologize for what she had done, even when she still didn’t know the true extent of Genji’s involvement in the whole Morrison ordeal.

Reaching out to him, she let her warm fingers find his artificial wrists.

She squeezed gently, sensing his fears.

“She didn’t know.” He said, “Angela. None of us knew but she… she said she had her suspicions, but she didn’t know it was really him behind that visor.”

“Then you should be with her now,” Amelie whispered softly, as she let go of him.

“I told you: I’m more of a _calm down_ sort of guy. Jesse is the one consoling her now.”

He stared at the empty cup resting right before his eyes. Then her figure became a blurry landscape moving in the background, as she stood up and walked away. He stayed there for a while longer, still sitting all alone in the quiet kitchen.

_“So, any celebrities you’ve danced with?” He asked, taking her hand in his._

_“Ballerinas are not celebrities,” she said, smiling tenderly at him. “Sure some names are bigger than others but… well, there was someone: Amelie Lacroix, she was very good… Though the real celebrity was her husband, Gerard Lacroix, an Overwatch agent.”_

_The young man shook his head in silence: Overwatch agents were indeed celebrities, the world treated them as such; there was no doubt about it._

_“What you mean ‘was’?” He asked, snaking his arms around her waist, “She retired?”_

_“She disappeared.”_

His rage summoned by the old visions; the empty cup, colliding helplessly against the floor, shattered and broke into countless tiny fragments. But much like the pieces of all those distant memories he had just begun to recover, there was no use trying to put it all back together now.

.

.

.

**VI – Midnight Theorems II or The Monsters That Live in Our Dreams (The second night)**

_There were too many people on that bed. Even if she couldn’t see them, even though they weren’t there, she could still feel their ghostly presences hover over her._

_It was good having him all for her again. Even if it was just a dream – even if she knew she was only dreaming. The body she had known was there for her, sheltering her once more from the world outside that room. His arms, like strong walls secluding her in his intimate type of affection, were guiding the dance once again, after eternities without him, after countless hours of dreamless dreams._

_Her skin was blue._

_Cold to the touch, deprived of all feeling._

_She climbed on top of him and positioned herself. Graced by his silent admiration, she welcomed him again into the depths of her dormant body – the heat emanating from his core fulfilling her once more. Her every desire, moved by the rhythm of her body, was finding an echo in Gerard’s calm satisfaction: each gesture she had come to adore, every change in his features…_

_The man snaked his arms around her waist and sat down on the bed. He looked over his shoulder minutely – perhaps he could sense their presence too. With eyes closed, he allowed his lips to find her breasts, like blue mountains guiding his way through the night. Beacons of lust and love, cold and mesmerizing. When his tongue began to circle one of her nipples she felt him stop, all motions of his body coming to a sudden halt. He looked up, offering her a puzzled look._

_Damn, she was cold._

_And his warmth was not enough to make her feel the heat. Instead, her skin was making him cold, as he shivered, and questioned her with desperate, silent eyes._

_She tried to hold on to him, wrapping his face in her hands and bringing him closer to her. The kiss felt alive, yet his lips were dead and unmoving. When she let go of him she saw the blood covering her blue fingers, the wounds around his skull and the scarlet rivers pooling around her legs._

_There were too many people on that bed._

_As the blue woman cradled her dying husband in her arms, like a brokenhearted mother rocking her child to eternal sleep, she heard the sobs and the desperate pleas: the young lady she had seen in the hotel, crying over her man’s dead body and staring at her with reddened eyes. The simultaneity of their stories, converging in the cruel desolation of a bed made of death, made her close her eyes and wish it all away. She ordered herself to wake up but when her eyes swam back into focus, she realized she was still trapped inside that room._

_Gerard had died once again._

_Then she heard the gunshot, ending the woman instantaneously. The ocean of blood had painted her whole world red yet her skin was still blue and cold, inalterable in all its mutilated essence. Only a few crimson drops, like beads of a profane rosary, were left to stain the soulless paradigm of her body._

When she finally opened her eyes and realized that it had just been a dream, she felt deceived by her own senses. She stared at her own hands as if actually expecting to see Gerard’s blood covering them – yet her immaculate fingers had nothing to show, nothing but the emptiness of a disturbing dream.

As if guided by the enchanting song of a mermaid, Amelie left her bed and made her way to the storage deposit. There she found them, the venom mines that Overwatch had confiscated from her the night they brought her in. Small and deadly, cold and appealing, that poison whispered mad tales of sins and desolation.

Before she knew it, one of the crystal spiders was resting on the palm of her hand. It would be so easy to use it, so easy to inflict pain and allow that cold blue to overcome her once again – perhaps the Widowmaker could do that for her, maybe she could anesthetize her conflicting emotions, maybe she could put her sorrow to rest.

Frightened by her own thoughts, she left the venom mines where she had found them and abandoned that place. The empty corridors led the way for her, her long legs welcoming the cold of Gibraltar’s lowest hours. His door appeared before her eyes, like a guiding North in a broken compass or a possible horizon for a wounded castaway. Breathing through parted lips, she let her hands touch the metallic barrier separating her from him yet she couldn’t bring herself to knock on his door, so she simply pushed it open, as silently as she could, and made her way to his bed.

He looked so peaceful while he slept…

She knelt down on the floor before his bed, reaching out, her hands caressed his temples.

“Don’t you think it’s all a dream?” she whispered.

He opened his eyes and sat up on the bed, his arms, like solid bridges, lifting her up and pulling her close.

“Can I stay the night?”

“You don’t need to ask.”

Curling up beside him, she let her head rest on his bare chest.

“I killed Gerard in my sleep again tonight.” She said.

He answered nothing. It was pointless to even try to tell her that he had already killed Genji a million times in his dreams. Every new dream was darker than the one before. More violent. More tormenting and vicious.

When she used her elbows to shift her position in bed and looked him in the eye, he could sense the void inside swallowing her whole. He watched her in silence as she took off her clothes – the anatomy of pain and frustration that she had to offer differed greatly from the pristine body he had envisioned in his mind.

When she pressed her lips against his he felt the ghosts fly over them. His thin lips did not reciprocate the kiss, still, he breathed into her mouth:

“It’s hard to see you as a woman when the only name that escapes your mouth is Gerard.”

He could offer her many things. His silent comprehension, his devoted affection, even his confused love, still at the verge of his own sentimental awakening – but he could never bring himself to offer her his body as an empty vessel for her tired mind to toy with.

She stared intently at him, eyes confused yet exhibiting signs of understanding. It was unfair to force him to play this sort of game, she knew. It was wrong to utilize his body as a catalyst for her to be free of her own demons – not when she still could not bring herself to think of him as a man. At least, not yet.

She covered her body with the bedsheets and turned her back to him, ashamed. She was offering him a body he could not call his own – as if he wasn’t allowed to think of her as a woman; he was being forced to watch her undress and long for him in a macabre way.

Perhaps she wasn’t feeling woman enough. Perhaps it was her way to replicate her power over him, he pondered.

“My skin was blue,” She said, her voice nearly extinguished.

“You won’t return to Talon, Amelie,” Hanzo whispered, caressing her shoulder. “Should you ever find yourself in such a situation, I’ll stop you. You have my word.”

Only then she finally allowed herself to cry. When she felt his arms wrapped up around her stomach, she exhaled and closed her eyes – yet sleep was still elusive for her. Images of those bodies, the blood staining the blue and Gerard’s final breath were still haunting her. The blazing flames of that ancient lust, washing over her and waking up needs she hadn’t felt in such a long time – “In that hotel – I watched a couple having sex,” she finally confessed, “it’s hard to explain, but as I was watching them, I could feel something stirring inside. I could hear an old voice trying to guide me through the darkness.” She turned around, staring at him, still trapped in his arms, “I want to feel that again.”

He understood then, that the many years she had spent with Talon had repressed her every emotion and now that they had opened up the gates again, everything she hadn’t felt during that time was rushing its way inside her, overwhelming her with a million conflicting emotions.

He remembered the night when he showed her the beast – her lips tasting his for the first time.

It pained him to realize she hadn’t awoken that day, he hadn’t been enough for her to finally open her eyes. His kiss had only brought her closer to the edge, but she had not fully crossed that line.

Maybe his brother was right.

Maybe he had never been sentimentally educated. How could he bring himself to shine his light on her, when he was still living in the dark?

.

As soon as she noticed that Hanzo was asleep, she got up, dressed up again and left his room in silence. Back in the endless corridors of Gibraltar, her legs didn’t stop until the cold breeze coming from the bay became a reality colliding against her skin.

There she saw the cowboy’s shape, sitting alone, facing the water. A cigarette pressed between his lips and the melancholic aura that would always accompany him.

She approached him silently, sitting down beside him.

He was wearing nothing but his underwear, yet he didn’t seem to mind the cold. Love marks had tattooed his neck yet he didn’t seem happy.

She remembered such marks, just as she remembered love.

She remembered the thrill and the longing.

Yet the desolation written all over his face was narrating a completely different tale. He was reluctant to speak at first, though he wasn’t exactly hostile either. When his cigar became a memory, his lips were finally free to tell the story. Angela was _theirs_. Shared. She belonged with them: the ninja and the cowboy. Jesse had been the first man she had loved, and the pulsating memory of their rekindled past had recently been brought back to life. But she was also Genji’s. And that was alright with them.

Love was meant to be simple, she remembered.

It was supposed to flow from one person to another, and maybe triangulate and reach yet another person willing to share that same devotion. For them, it worked that way.

She contemplated his warmed up face as he told her about his loves – different types of love, they were, but they all belonged in the same symphony of feelings.

It was, indeed, such a simple thing.

But the threat of a complication was knocking on their door: when McCree left Blackwatch many years ago, leaving Angela alone, she had found solace in the comforting arms of Jack Morrison. But then the man had gotten himself killed oh so recklessly. Both Jesse and Jack had left her all alone – and Genji could not help her, still trying to recognize himself in the shape of that artificial body they had given him…

After the recall, they had found their missing balance. All wounds had healed up. It was simple.

She was theirs and they were hers. It worked that way.

But finding out that Morrison was alive, that he had been there all along, sitting at their table, laughing at their jokes…

 _“Turns out I’m more of a calm down kind of guy. Jesse is the true consoling type.”_ Genji’s words were ringing in her ears with the virulence of an enraged god – The man that Angela had loved had looked her in the eye and had chosen to lie to her. _“She didn’t know… Angela. None of us knew but she… she said she had her suspicions, but she didn’t know it was really him behind that visor.”_

The balance they had found in each other, the perfect cycle of shared love was facing its darkest hour. And they didn’t even have to say it out loud, it was written all over their faces: their plural kind of love could not sustain another actor. Their community had been compromised, and she had been the one resurrecting the dead.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, feeling guilty and powerless, finally acknowledging the true extent of her thoughtless actions.

McCree nodded his head in silence and turned his back to her.

It was meant to be simple – like silence. She lowered her head and went back to the corridor. Looking for that door. Looking for that silence.

.

Her slender figure, even if featherlike and graceful as it landed on the bed, should have been enough for the former mercenary to open his eyes. It was unlike him, to be so far from her reach while traveling the ethereal confines of slumber. Her paperweight body shifted on the mattress as she reached out for the archer with one adventurous hand – he barely moved under her touch, a minuscule, nearly imperceptible bridge between his eyebrows was all the proof she needed to understand he was somewhat aware of her presence. Still, the Japanese man wouldn’t grace her curiosity with his imperturbable gaze. Far from it, his body turned and tossed on the bed - one muscular arm soared in the night, exposing the ancestral beast.

The dancer smiled quietly as she placed her hands on her knees and watched him sleep. There was something so peaceful about him – something so eerily foreign, wrapping him up in a laconic sense of peace that, she knew, was his no more.

Peace wasn’t something they could bargain. People like them – they simply could not wager.

She extended one of her arms and let it hover gracefully over his shoulder. Pale and long digits meandered across his illustrated skin as if desperately trying to commit the shapes and colors to memory. Then the woman leaned over him, her body lingering nearby, the smile on her lips already caressing his arm.

He moved again, causing the woman to lift her hand instinctively. That wasn’t her room, that wasn’t her bed and her midnight escapade could potentially make her look like a moody teenager. Just as she tried to prop herself up with her elbows like she had done earlier that night, the archer turned again in his sleep and trapped her fragile figure under his torso. It was pointless to even try to get away from such an awkward position, she figured – any movement would be enough to wake him up.

It was true that she was longing to spend the night with him, but she had never imagined she would have to spend the night _under_ him, and pray her bones were strong enough to survive that suffocating weight of his.

As Amelie closed her eyes and tried to join him in the lands of unspoken dreams, she found herself smiling at the irony – even when she still couldn’t quite discern why she had decided to go back to his bedchamber this late at night, it was funny to think that such a cold-blooded mercenary like Hanzo would not notice a stranger coming into his room.

She bit the insides of her gums trying to contain the laughter. The assassin, the man who would have been in charge of the Shimada clan was completely at her mercy – she could have killed him a thousand times already…

The smile curling up her lips remained yet the colors had now changed.

Suddenly she realized he really _was_ at her mercy.

She tried to shake herself out of that thought – they had helped her after all; Talon’s corruption was not painting her world black anymore. Then why was she feeling like that? So tempted by blood, so desperate to hurt him…

She moved under him until she was able to free one of her hands. Her lascivious digits traveled across his collarbone, nails leaving red trails of fire that had nothing to do with the ever tempting flames of desire. When the first rivulets of blood appeared and began to stream down his torso, her dark smile faded.

Her lips became a thin, tight line.

She had hurt him.

As her hand landed on his skin again, eager to clean the blood and hide what she had done, the archer cupped her hand in his and opened his eyes. He didn’t look surprised to find her there – maybe he had always known, all along, ever since she got on her tiptoes and walked through the door…

There was a brief moment of silence; interrupted only by the sounds of the bedsheets moving as he allowed her some space to maneuver – to _maneuver_ , not to leave the bed. Just as if nothing had happened, the archer rested his head on the pillow and closed his eyes again. His arms wrapped around her waist and his hands landing on her smooth stomach.

Suddenly it was natural, or so it seemed. To be able to share a bed without even mentioning it. To draw blood from his skin for no reason, without even saying “I’m sorry.”

Hanzo could sense her uneasiness. Her eyes glued to the ceiling; her arms crossed over her chest.

He rested his chin on her shoulder and exhaled loudly yet he still refrained from talking. He knew himself – knew how the words tended to sound when coming out of his mouth – too harsh, too abrasive.

“Sometimes I feel like hurting people for no reason,” Amelie finally confessed, holding on to him. “What if Talon’s…”

He cut her off as he hid his face between her neck and her chest:

“That’s not Talon, Amelie – that’s _human nature_.”

.

.

.


	3. The Girl From The Ramen Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One memory. Two points of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s notes: So, I told ya you wouldn’t have to wait that much for a new chapter, didn’t I? This, in spite of being labeled as the third act of this tale, is a continuation of the previous chapter. Remember when I told you I had to split that one in two because it was getting significantly longer than expected? Well, here’s the other half of it and it’s even longer than the previous half!  
> Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, following and giving kudos!  
> Love, L.

Variations on a Theme

Act III

 **The Girl From The Ramen Shop**  

* * *

 

_“That's what the world is, after all: an endless battle of contrasting memories.”_

Haruki Murakami ― 1Q84

* * *

.

.

.

**I – An Invitation**

Morning light found their bodies still together in his bed. Their shapes calmly receiving the whispers of a brand new day, warm bedsheets covering their skins. She woke up first. Turned around and looked over her shoulder just to contemplate the archer’s quiet expression as he slept. It still amazed her how peaceful he could look during such moments – like a fragile being, only she knew that he wasn’t. He was many things, of that she was sure… and yet his fragility was still a mirage that could confuse her, but not blind her from the truth: inside that man was a restless soul, a ferocious beast waiting for the final rapture.

As she smiled tenderly at herself, the sleepy sniper made a mental note not to forget about that fact, and to not get confused by such crystalline illusions of him; to acknowledge the ancestral beast forever dwelling inside the man.

Just like she had done the day before, she slowly got out of his bed and took a quick shower. Then she exited the small bathroom, her body wrapped up in a white towel. Still asleep, the archer hadn’t moved an inch during her absence. She sat down on the edge of his bed, peeling off the towel and discarding it quickly on the ground as it pooled around her ankles, then proceeded to put on her underwear – one more look over her shoulder was enough for the woman to refrain from putting on the rest of her training attire. Folding her legs together and making her way underneath the bedsheets once more, Amelie indulged herself in the warm calmness of a brand new morning by his side. Lying face to face now, the Frenchwoman traced the outline of his cheekbones with her fingertips, trying to imagine whatever dreams he was having. It made her envious, albeit in a positive way, to know that he was able to sleep like a child without having his dreams plagued by endless nightmares.  

At least, so it seemed.

She felt his hands reach for her waist and pull her closer to his chest. Without opening his eyes, the Japanese archer buried his face in the small space between her neck and her shoulder – but only for a brief instant. As droplets of water fell from her still wet hair and tickled the tip of his nose, the former crime lord stretched his arms and yawned, confused by the uncanny sensation.

She smiled and laughed quietly to herself as she turned around in bed, her wet hair now greeting his entire face and forcing him to wake up.

“Amelie?” Hanzo mumbled groggily, still too sleepy to grace his voice with his usually stern tone. Then he shook his head and allowed his forehead to find her back, and there he stayed, his hands now holding tight to her stomach. “Five more minutes.”

“Alright,” she said, closing her eyes.

“Make it ten, then.”

Their schedules were almost empty for that day – besides a single training session later, during the afternoon, they would be pretty much left to their own devices for the rest of the day. Just as Amelie was beginning to feel the warm pressure of his calloused hands rubbing gently against her stomach, the peaceful scene they were sharing got interrupted as soon as Genji stepped inside Hanzo’s room without even knocking on his older brother’s door.

Hanzo let go of Amelie almost immediately when he saw his brother approaching them then sat up on his bed, stretching the bedsheets as far as his arms could reach in order to cover the Frenchwoman’s body. Disapproval written all over his face, the older Shimada questioned his brother with a silent, scornful look as he felt Amelie’s legs moving under the sheets, much like as if she was trying to cover her whole existence with them.

“Father taught us manners. We used to knock.” Hanzo spat disdainfully, his hands traveling rapidly across the bed to make sure his younger brother could not see Amelie in anything but her underwear.

“Hanzo,” Genji began, casually, “Nothing I haven’t seen before – and talking about manners, when we were young and _you_ would be the one entering my bedroom without knocking, at least I would always ask you if you wanted to join.”

The older Shimada breathed hard through parted lips. The insufferable brat he had known a lifetime ago seemed to be alive and kicking inside his younger brother’s indefatigable spirit. Annoying and brash, as usually, he would always find a way to make him feel uncomfortable.

“Not that you ever said _yes_ to any of my invitations but even so, I always knew I had to ask.” The cyborg ninja went on, as he approached the bed at such a steady pace, “Was the least I could do for my favorite brother, besides… you’re right, father taught us some pretty good manners.”

Hanzo grunted angrily, almost on the verge of feeling offended by his brother’s cynical words.

“Don’t feel threatened by me now, brother. I’m not that man anymore.” Genji assured, his hands in the air. “Besides, you and I have had our differences in the past, and we have fought over many things. A woman, never.”

Kicking the archer gently on his nearest ankle, Amelie finally opened her eyes, understanding it was pointless to pretend to be asleep for much longer. She sat up in bed as well, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Oh, Amelie,” Genji greeted her, “I went to your room but you weren’t there – I figured you’d be here again today.”

“What do you want, Genji?” A nearly exasperated Hanzo asked, “It’s early.”

“Worry not, brother,” Genji chuckled, “you might as well go back to sleep. I only wanted to see Amelie.”

Surprised, the woman scratched her chin and offered the newcomer a puzzled expression:

“What can I do for you, Genji?” she asked, still wrapped up in the same awkward feeling she had experienced the night before, during their brief encounter in the kitchen: the complete impossibility to tell if Hanzo’s brother was being friendly or not.

“Jesse told me you two talked last night, and he said you made him feel at ease with himself. If I had to be honest, that’s the same feeling I got when we talked last night.” He sounded genuine, she thought, “Today is Tuesday and, like every other Tuesday night, the three of us get together and have a few drinks after dinner. We thought, as a token of our appreciation, it would be nice to have you joining us tonight.”

Amelie opened her mouth but before any words could reach the outside, Genji went on:

“You know this is a particularly hard time for us, for the three of us – especially for Angela. And I also know that you feel responsible for what happened with Jack…”

“About that,” Amelie interrupted him, “is Angela okay with this? Both Jesse and you told me she’s having such a hard time processing the news about Jack being alive… I don’t know if she’ll feel comfortable around me.”

“I told you – it was not your fault.” Hanzo tried to reassure her, patting her shoulder gently as he spoke.

“Angela is okay, Amelie. She understands.” Genji said. “So, tonight, after dinner. What do you say?”

“I say it’s an invitation.” The woman answered softly as Genji nodded in silence. “I’ll be there.”

Just as the younger Shimada was beginning to leave, Amelie’s soft voice made him stop and turn around one last time.

“What about inviting your brother too, Genji?” she asked, timidly, “Thought I heard you say you always invited him, in case he wanted to join.”

“Not this time,” the ninja said on his way out, “He might actually say _yes_.”

.

.

.

**II – Friendly Fire**

“So, what did he mean when he said _nothing I haven’t seen before_?” She asked as she balanced one of her brand new venom mines in her hand. The texture of the petite purple glass sphere seemed smoother than the spiders that Talon had given her while she was still Widowmaker. Angela had supervised the development of the brand new toxin – unlike its deadly predecessor, this venom was meant to simply paralyze the targets for a little less than two minutes and, with a little help from Torbjörn, once the venom had begun to work its magic, Amelie could be able to see them, just like immobilized and static targets on her visor.

The quiet hours of the afternoon were humid and warm. The bright, pink hues painting the sky were only interrupted by a few small clouds rolling their way towards the bay – anticipating sunset, the wind caressed the figureless shapes as they made their way near the shore for both snipers to see the dark core moving inside. Black roared patiently inside the white shapes cruising the sky above, waiting for the rain to come.

Hanzo was already aiming for his chosen target. His sight focused on the distant red dot adorning the silhouette’s head. Far from his reach, standing helplessly on a solitary rock only inches away from the shore, the target seemed to be almost peacefully awaiting in its artificial sort of lethargy, for an arrow to come its way. 

“I don’t know.” He said simply, too concentrated to care.

“Come on… did the heir of the Shimada clan bring many girls home back in the day?”

The distraction that was her voice was not enough for the Japanese archer to take his eyes off of his target. His bow already hungry, his mind almost drunk in anticipation.

“What? No.” The man replied as he shook his head dismissingly, without even looking at her, “ _He_ was the one who would always bring his companions home.” Only when the selected arrow had silently traveled the distance and reached its target he finally turned around and said: “At least he did, when he was much younger. The last couple of years he spent with the clan he would always take his _business_ away from the Shimada castle.”

Looking through the scope of her sniper rifle, the woman beckoned him to take a closer look as she spoke quietly: “And you were the _wallflower,_ then, when you both were younger? Always interrupting your brother’s pleasure?”

“My brother’s pleasure knew no interruptions back then.”

His muscular arms were wrapped around the scope. The surprising sight startled him: the red mark was still intact. He had missed.

“At least he was polite enough to ask if you wanted to join.” Amelie pushed him slightly with her hip. Now it was her turn to hit the tricky mark.

“Quit it,” Hanzo warned her harshly as he finally stepped aside, making room for the female sniper to position herself behind the rifle. She winked at him, before embracing the scope.

“Did you ever…?” He heard her say, her voice a mere whisper.

“Did I ever what?” A confused Hanzo asked as he crossed his arms over his chest in a rather despondent fashion.

“Joined.”

Unlike his arrow, Amelie’s bullet disrupted the peaceful afternoon and hit the mark. Splinters of what used to be the target were soaring now across the pink and orange sky.

He saw her, as she took a step back and smiled triumphantly at him.

“You heard him. Not even once.” He seemed somewhat proud of his answer yet his gesture of absolute confidence vanished from his face the second he noticed Amelie’s eyes aiming for him with renewed intent. “Wait, why are you looking at me like that? You don’t think I’m a forty-year-old virgin, do you?”

She waved her hands dismissingly. Almost laughing at him.

“You’re not forty. Not yet.” She started to walk, rifle resting now on her shoulder, “And if I recall correctly, you _did_ reject a naked woman in your own bed last night.” He followed close behind as the woman motioned her body towards the next target. “An easy prey…”

He stopped at once and got on one knee, his fingers already retrieving an arrow from his quiver.

“If anything, I like to think I was more… discreet.” He mumbled, almost to himself.

“Then why would he say something like that? _Nothing I haven’t seen before_?”

Hanzo breathed out, getting tired of the conversation already yet still focused on finding the perfect arrow.

“Can’t you see he was talking about _you_ – and just trying to make me feel uncomfortable, like when we were younger?” He remembered, “I think he saw me trying to cover your body with the bedsheets so he said that meaning that I shouldn’t worry, that he was already familiar with the shape of a woman in nothing but her underwear.”

Hanzo looked up and found her gaze but instead of showing her his increasing discord he found his own cheeks turning warmer and redder than ever before.

“You could have put on a shirt or something before getting inside my bed again.” He reprimanded her.

“I was comfortable that way. And you were sleeping – I thought you wouldn’t mind because you wouldn’t notice.”

“I was going to wake up eventually.” He finally got up, a scatter arrow between his fingers. Now it was Amelie’s turn to fold her arms over her chest.

“Plus, I didn’t know Genji would come in without knocking.” She said, looking into his eyes, “Besides, it’s not like he caught us in the middle of something… we weren’t doing anything, you made yourself perfectly clear last night.” She took a step back as a darker shade covered her face.

It was just a coincidence – a solitary cloud rolling by in the sky and taking away her light. But only momentarily.

He sighed, absorbed by the eerie eclipse.

“What I said to you last night… It was cruel and completely uncalled for. I apologize.” As soon as the words had left his lips the woman moved closer and cupped one of his hands in hers – he realized she felt colder now, somehow. Not as cold as she had felt back then, but colder than the Amelie he had grown so used to during the last couple of months.

“You don’t have to – I was confused. The nightmare I was having; you know what I saw that day, with Morrison… I was the one who stepped out of line. Not you.”

The distance between them had been reduced to zero. Amelie planted a soft kiss on his forehead as she whispered:

“It’s okay, Hanzo. Let it go.”

He saw her, as she moved away and began running towards the antenna where the second target had been placed. Then she used her grappling hook to reach the exact location. Unsticking the red mark that had been glued to the head, the woman smiled at him and then descended – the red mark she had retrieved from the target could now be spotted on her training shirt, a few inches above her heart, near her left sleeve.

She stood in front of him and smiled yet the archer offered her a puzzled look in return.  

“Hanzo…”

His competitive spirit was finally matched, rivaled by her determination. He shook his head, forcing himself out of the thought.

“Hanzo…”

“No.”

He took a step back, clearly annoyed by her idea. It wasn’t the first time that Amelie was trying to suggest they played such a dangerous game. If he had to be honest, he knew exactly what was going to happen now: a silent discussion was about to take place, his harsh looks would try their best to convince the woman that that wasn’t training, that it was dangerous, unnecessarily dangerous, that even if he understood that those targets were no fun at all, they could find other ways to make the most of their training sessions. She would always tilt her head just a little and offer him a look of complete desolation, as if touched by his solemn determination and unparalleled concern. Most times it would not be enough, though, and she would insist. Yet each time he would convince her, with nothing but silence; that such games were simply not worth their time – and definitely not worth their blood.

It would generally take a few more moments for the French sniper to accept her defeat. But she would never struggle against it – once Hanzo’s determination had finally prevailed, she would simply embrace the fact that the Japanese man had won.

Not this time.

The woman rearranged the red mark near her sleeve, then shook her head twice, allowing her long hair to brush her own shoulders. The man watched her silently, as he put away his unused arrow, the quiver already hanging from his shoulder and resting against his back.

“If you don’t like Ana’s targets, we could try using the firing range instead, we still have twenty minutes to go, you know?” he suggested, knowing a bit too well that Amelie found the immobile targets that Ana was so fond of to be obnoxiously boring.

If he had to be completely honest with himself, he too found the idea of immobile targets to be a tad bit old-fashioned. Ana was old school, he knew that much, still he felt the need of experiencing a far more challenging training. The cowboy had felt that way too, so he had suggested they built a small firing range in Gibraltar, similar to the ones they used to have in many different watchpoints all over the globe back in the day. Training bots weren’t the epitome of thrill either, but at least they could move around the range providing a moderate sense of challenge.

Still, the woman refused.

She put her arm around his shoulder, taking a good look at the quiver of arrows resting near his back. Her free hand came to scratch her own chin as she rolled her eyes,  

“Just out of curiosity, does your brother still have a penis?”

The way she had said those words, oh so carelessly, almost as if she was talking about something as trivial as the weather, made his cheeks turn a furious red.

“A human penis, that is.” She insisted, not really caring about the stupor that was written all over Hanzo’s face.

“What?” He was stunned, perplexed.

“Humor me, come on. Tell me.”

An elegant hand was sliding now against his back, barely brushing his shoulder blades. He could have sworn she was touching his quiver, but the commotion was blinding him even from the most obvious of truths.

“What?” Hanzo asked again, his voice raspier than before, his throat completely dry.

The woman let go of him and started to walk towards the cliff.

“You know, with his cybernetic enhancements and the parts you mutilated…” she was moving with such poise now, and the sultry tone of her voice was clearly fighting a laugh.

“I never touched his…” He knew what she was trying to do: she was trying to elicit a reaction from him, a blinding chain reaction that would force him to play her game – and sadly, it was working. “How can you even suggest I could do something like that?”

She used her grappling hook to travel the distance and positioned herself on top of the tallest rock, facing the bay. The sunlight was beginning to encompass her whole body, recreating her shape in mere particles of light. It was hard to see her – the confusing rapture of light was toying with his vision and they both knew: a sniper who cannot see becomes utterly useless.

“You killed him – that’s even worse.”

Her voice in the distance was reaching out to him and calling out the beast resting inside. Even when he knew she didn’t mean it he could feel the thunder beginning to stir inside his core. A poorly concealed half-smile adorned his face, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes: he was older, wiser…. Yet he was caught in the spider’s web all the same.

“Precisely. I was trying to kill him, what was the point in emasculating him?” His fingers were already reaching for his quiver. “Dead people don’t need penises.”

“Maybe some old Yakuza ritual? Like a souvenir or a trinket?”

Hanzo lowered his head, surrendering to her strategies. She clearly knew him a little too well; knew what to say, and when to say it.

“I can’t believe it. I refuse to believe we’re talking about Genji’s penis.” His voice was softer now yet his fingers had already found what they were looking for.

“I think it just seems very unlikely for him to still have his human penis with all those prosthetics.” Amelie continued. She had her arms folded over her chest; the nearly unrecognizable being made of light that she had become was facing the waters, still waiting for the archer to make a move.

“I… I don’t know. Can we please change the subject?” He readied one of his sonic arrows: he knew he needed to see her clearly, but before he could even take aim with his bow he noticed the small sphere that had been glued to the arrow. Now it was much too late: her poison was only inches away from his nose: he sighed, defeated, as he welcomed the dense cloud enveloping his face. His muscles went stiff, he felt petrified, frozen in place.

Her laughter, coming from the distance, brushed his ears in the most sardonic of ways.

“He didn’t tell you? If he still has his… you know… his…?” Amelie knew the toxin couldn’t keep him paralyzed forever. As soon as she noticed its effects wearing off, she readied her grappling hook again but before she could fly over the nearest building, the archer made his move. The tingling sensation had finally abandoned his fingers; the arrow cruised in a perfectly straight trajectory, piercing Amelie’s training shirt in the process. The woman stumbled on the rock and whimpered as soon as she noticed the sonic arrow now resting idly above her hip – he had been careful enough not to hurt her, in fact, he hadn’t even touched her – yet the arrow was still there, embedded in her clothes and making her visible for him. The eclipse of light she had procured for herself was no more. If anything, she had become a bright red silhouette for the master marksman.

“No, he didn’t. And before you ask: no, I didn’t ask him either.” Hanzo finally spoke, proudly.

“Why not?” She mumbled, mildly entertained. Her fingers were already busy, trying to remove the arrow but then she gave up on her effort and simply ripped that part of her shirt off.

“Cause it’s none of my business.” He retorted, watching carefully and paying attention to her every move. She was swinging from one rooftop to the other, visibly trying to find the perfect spot for her sniper rifle to reciprocate his daring advance.

“But what do you think? If you had to guess…” Her voice was still soft, but he couldn’t tell if she was near or far so he looked over his shoulder, trying to find her.

“I don’t know. How _could_ I know? I haven’t seen him fully naked since we were little children.”

There she was – below the antenna facing the cliff, hidden by the stairs.

“I see…” She whispered, the shape of his body already clear in her scope; his shoulders defined – his treacherous arms, even if seemingly innocuous, getting ready - “But doesn’t it make you curious?”

Hanzo looked for another sonic arrow in his quiver but chose to go for a scatter arrow instead – he didn’t have to learn her exact location, he already knew where she was: it would be just a warning sign for her.

“No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t in the slightest.”

Spreading its blue in all directions, she saw the arrows raining all around her and embraced the scope more tightly. She grinned to herself, confident: “Cause now he’s with Angela, and she was the one in charge of his recovery. Sure Torbjörn helped in designing his new body but she was the one commanding the whole thing.”

“Don’t even say it.”

He was pulling the string closely to his chest; the new arrow seemed eager to reach its target. It soared rapidly, aiming for her rifle – but only briefly.

Her bullet shattered his arrow mid-air.

Then she finally broke her cover, hands at the sides of her waist and a satisfied, triumphant smile plastered across her face: “Maybe she liked him a little too much back then, so she built something special for _him, or for them_ , I don’t know anymore…”

His dark eyes welcomed her – yet the coldness in his stare was revealing the turmoil still aching inside: “Perhaps she even made it so that one of the cowboy’s robotic fingers is secretly a vibrator.” He spat disdainfully, and even if his commentary was worth a laugh not a single muscle in his face seemed to be able to move. “Why don’t you ask them tonight, if you’re so curious about it?”

He turned around and began to walk away.

“Haha, how funny…” she laughed, trying to win his attention back.

Nothing.  

“Where are you going?” The woman yelled, frustration written all over her pale face. “It was just a joke.”

He didn’t stop.

“Time’s up, Amelie. I’m heading back inside.”

Her hands were still placed on the sides of her waist but her victorious poise was nowhere to be found now.

A small sigh was followed by a deep breath.

“It’s not over just because you say it’s over.” She yelled again, his body becoming smaller and smaller in the distance.

“Then why does it have to be on just because you say it’s on?” His voice, harsh but soft at the same time, brushed her ears as he walked on by, “For once, I would really appreciate some reciprocity.”

.

.

.

**III – Pohs Nemar Eht Morf Lrig Eht**

The snipers’ table wasn’t as chatty as it had been, some weeks ago. It was missing one component: Ana, the oldest member of the group, and while her stories and anecdotes were missed by both Hanzo and Amelie, truth was the air between them was still so tense and awkward after the events of the last training session that they both knew, deep down, that even the most hilarious tale wouldn’t be enough to help them relax. It was as if both snipers had felt the need to embrace the tension and discord still wrapped around every other soul in Gibraltar; their thoughtless interactions had done that much for them, making them match the colorless scenes taking place around every table.

Even the younger members of Overwatch seemed distressed, somehow.

Ana, struggling against everyone and everything, was the only one sharing a table with the now infamous Jack Morrison.

The ones in the middle had chosen silence.

It seemed healthier, somehow, to just remain quiet and simply try to move on.

When Angela and the cowboy beckoned the Frenchwoman to come join them at their table, she simply refused by waving her hand: even if Genji was nowhere to be found she knew better than to leave Hanzo all alone, especially after the tough afternoon she had procured just for him. The cowboy smiled tenderly, understanding her situation, then raised his artificial hand to indicate the woman that they would be waiting for her outside the kitchen, once dinner was over.

Only when they left the room they found the missing Shimada, waiting for them outside, with several unopened bottles of beer resting on the floor. The ritual had begun and Amelie, finally fitting in, felt the burden on her shoulders starting to feel lighter and lighter.

Yet the burden returned in a mere couple of seconds, as soon as she observed the chain of kisses taking place right before her eyes: Angela and Genji, Angela and Jesse and finally Jesse and Genji. She soon found herself taking a few steps backward, taken aback by their unrestricted affection, but even when she moved without even realizing it, the three lovers turned around and looked over their shoulders, confused.

“I don’t really get it,” Amelie let out, softly and visibly ashamed of herself and the million questions plaguing her head.

“You don’t understand how this works?” McCree asked, signaling her to move closer to them.

“Not exactly that…” she said as she walked slowly, moving towards them now, “You two were friends during your time in Blackwatch, right?”

Both males nodded instantly.

“And Angela was Jesse’s girlfriend back then?” Amelie tilted her head, looking confused by her own deductions, “But not Genji’s?”

The younger Shimada and McCree repeated their previous gesture only this time it was more vigorous and resolute than before.

“And there was another time… when she was Genji’s girlfriend, but not Jesse’s?” The fear of making them feel uncomfortable was making her voice weak.

This time, it was the doctor the one who nodded her head.  

“But what about the time you two spent together in Blackwatch when you were younger? Did something happen between the two of you back then? Did you like each other?”

“No.” The cowboy answered.

“You ask too many questions,” Genji spoke as well, folding his arms over his chest and causing Angela to cover her face with her hands as an attempt to fight back the laughter.  

“But what if Angela wasn’t involved?” Amelie asked, her voice a shy whisper now, “Do you think the two of you would be together?”

The doctor laughed out loud, patting the French woman on the back ever so gently.

“You know, for someone who likes my brother, you ask way too many questions.” He was softer than before, calmer.  

“Don’t make this about me.” Amelie pleaded as she watched the cowboy already leading the way towards the hangar. Genji followed him close behind, leaving the two women alone for a brief moment.

“Well, the three of us know each other pretty well by now so…” As soon as Angela said those words she began sprinting towards her men, leaving Amelie behind as the Frenchwoman observed the trio in silence. McCree spread his red serape on the ground for the ladies to be more comfortable and the four of them sat down in a semi-circle, the bottles of beer taking center stage. It was the cowboy the one in charge of sharing his alcohol; the first bottle traveling from one hand to the other – yet one of the first things that Amelie noted was that Genji, unlike the others around him, was not drinking. Even with his helmet off, the Sparrow was the only one without a drink in his hand and it made her wonder whether he was trying his best to stay sober or if maybe he didn’t want her to see the true extent of the physical damage caused by Hanzo.

She thought about it as she let her beer bottle rest between her legs – all things considered, she had never seen him eat or drink. Even the previous night, during their brief encounter in the kitchen, he had offered her the tea he had brewed for Angela instead of simply drinking it himself.

“I’m glad you accepted our invitation, Amelie.” The doctor said, brushing her shoulder ever so gently. The sniper grinned tenderly, resting her back against the wall. There was a small gap of silence – a comfortable silence – shared by the two women as the cowboy began to hum an old tune. There was something so soothing about him, she had experienced it the night before and the feeling was still there, persistent and constant, like his simple melodies or the tranquil expression on his face.

When she saw the doctor leaning against the cowboy’s broad shoulders she couldn’t help but to feel the need to apologize to her – yet Genji’s ambivalent moods seemed destined to break the moment of peace they were sharing. He stared at the sniper, eyes cold and tongue sharp as a blade:

“How does it feel to be rejected by someone like Hanzo, Amelie?”

 _Someone like Hanzo_ … he had said it so many times already it was hard for the woman not to feel tempted to ask him if he had truly forgiven his older brother.

McCree’s tune faded out and Angela shook her head in disbelief:

“You don’t have to answer that.” The doctor intervened, visibly upset by Genji’s rude question but even when her eyes had become as cold as his, he didn’t seem intimidated by his girlfriend in the slightest. McCree was the one who spoke next, trying his best to break the weird atmosphere created by the Sparrow:

“I remember going against you a couple times, back when you were still Widowmaker,” He paused and grimaced all of a sudden, unsure if talking about her days as a Talon operative was the best topic he could choose in such a moment, “I remember you were cruel – but hot.” He felt like punching his own face for even bringing that up – Genji had been cruel and he had only wanted to make their guest feel better… but remembering her days as a sleeper agent seemed a little too much.

Mercy eyed him briefly, almost on the very verge of feeling defeated by both her men.

“You don’t have to say anything about that either.” She suggested, giving up, yet Amelie’s laughter surprised her.

“I get that a lot, actually.” Now it was her turn to pat the other woman’s shoulder, a genuine smile still curling up her lips. She leaned in closer, as if she was about to share a valuable secret with everyone’s favorite doctor: “What they don’t know is that that bitch never got any _action_ , if you know what I mean.”

“Are you telling us Widowmaker _never_ had sex?” The cowboy’s jaw was almost touching his chest.

“Not even once.” She was proud of her answer. “I was _that_ detached from humanity.” Glancing over at Genji, she noticed the Sparrow lowering his head: according to Hanzo he had been quite the playboy back in the day – now, living his life somewhere in between the warmth of his mutilated humanity and the impersonality and coldness of his robotic enhancements, Amelie was left with no other choice but to acknowledge the fact that she had chosen to explore what could be a touchy subject for him.

Understanding that acting like that was never going to help her make amends with the Sparrow – even when she still could not fully understand _why_ she needed to make amends with him in the first place – Amelie sighed softly and picked up her bottle again. “I actually haven’t had sex since Gerard,” she confessed, “That’s why what I saw in that room made me snap – I’m finding all these feelings I had lost, and I can’t seem to fully control them.”

She felt their unspoken understanding as she told them the whole story: the lovers, the blood, the nightmares that followed. They weren’t judging her – far from it: they all seemed genuinely touched by her honesty.

“But… why Hanzo?” Genji finally asked, pensively.

She had no answer.

“He was never… He doesn’t really know how to…” he couldn’t find the words to talk about his own brother, or the man he had known a lifetime ago, “You were a married woman, you know how love is supposed to… work. But he doesn’t. He just doesn’t.”

She nodded her head.

“Yesterday you told me that you appreciate the fact that I’m taking my time to sentimentally educate your brother.” She remembered, “I’m not sure if that’s exactly what I’m doing; I don’t even know if such a thing exists.”

“It does.” Was all the Sparrow could say. “He has always lacked that kind of education. I tried my best to help him back when we were younger – but he never wanted any help.”

She stared at him for a moment, but then she looked away and her eyes found the doctor and the cowboy. They didn’t seem bored at all by the conversation – in fact, they seemed engaged, interested, as if they were hearing the most fascinating story for the very first time. Thinking it over, it made sense – Hanzo wasn’t exactly popular, and he wasn’t really interested in making any new friends. Genji, on the other hand, still was rather cryptic when talking about his older brother: the bitter experiences from their shared pasts were still like a veil placed right before his eyes, preventing him from revealing too much.

“Was that what you were trying to say today? When you entered his room and saw us together in bed and you said it was nothing you hadn’t seen before?”

Shimada shook his head, a mischievous grin taking over his lacerated face but only briefly.

“Not exactly.” The humorous gesture had now disappeared completely from his face. “There’s a lot you don’t know. And there’s a lot he won’t tell.”

The sniper scratched the back of her neck remembering how flustered Hanzo had looked when she had tried to ask him about his past.

“You know, when I asked your brother about this… we sort of had a little fight.”

“I can imagine…” The doctor whispered, fighting a laugh. The cowboy smirked at the remark, trying his best to suppress a smile as well.

“What?” Genji asked the group, his voice louder than before. “You don’t think my brother is some kind of forty-year-old virgin, right?”

“Funny enough, he told me that exact same thing.” Amelie retorted quickly, “I told him he was not forty. Not yet.”

Laughter encompassed the whole group, then. A loud thunder that knew no tension.

“Hanzo is very uptight,” Genji explained. “Back when we were younger he would often come inside my room while I was with somebody and I would always ask him if he wanted to join. He never accepted, of course, and if I had to be honest, I never invited him because it was the right thing to do – I just enjoyed that moment when his cheeks would turn bright red and he would snort so loudly… I loved making him feel awkward and uncomfortable around women, it was so easy: same reaction, every single time…. This morning I saw a chance – and I took it.”

“And he never said _yes_ …” McCree wondered.

“There was one time when I saw he was on the verge of accepting my invitation. But he chickened out before he had even opened his mouth.” He sounded mysterious, or at least he was trying to. Still, his sparkling eyes betrayed him and soon the group understood that he was only seconds away from sharing the whole story.

“Wish I brought my old harmonica…” The cowboy found himself whispering, already lost in anticipation.

“That’s not even remotely Japanese, Jesse…” Angela pointed out, smiling tenderly.

“What are you, the culture police?” McCree’s laughter dissipated gradually, leaving the small group in silence.

“A few weeks after I turned seventeen, I noticed Hanzo had stopped having lunch with the rest of the family.” Genji began, voice low, as if afraid his brother could hear him, “At first I thought they had changed his training schedule but turns out he was never hungry. So one day I asked him why he was eating lunch on his own and he told me that he wasn’t: he had been eating at this small ramen shop, just a few blocks away from our home. Every single day, for several weeks…”

McCree lit up a cigar and both the doctor and the Frenchwoman moved their hands around instinctively, trying their best to dissipate the dense clouds of dark smoke emanating from his nostrils.

“At first it was just lunch, but suddenly it was also dinner – and I mean… both my brother and I have always loved ramen, when we were kids we would often joke around and say we loved it so much we could have it every single day of our lives… but he was actually eating ramen every single day, twice a day now and, let’s be frank: nobody likes ramen that much.”

A small joke, followed by a small collection of quiet smiles – yet they faded rather quickly, and the story went on.

“I was no fool, I could see that something was happening to him – so I followed him one day, and joined him for lunch right there, in the shop.” He paused and noted Angela and McCree smiling tenderly at him, as if encouraging him to go on, to open up and let them in. Amelie was lost in thought – still there, but barely registering their moves. Her eyes and her ears had traveled to that shop. “When I saw the girl, I understood everything. He liked her. He really did. She was gorgeous – long, black hair and eyes big and dark like night itself. I don’t remember her name, but I do remember she was much, much shorter than us…”

“And you’re not exactly tall men, your big brother and you.” McCree chimed in.

Angela laughed.

Amelie didn’t.

“She was the shop owner’s only daughter, so she was always there, working with her father. She was very nice, very, very kind… I decided to join my brother for lunch each day, show my support, even help him if necessary. But as days went on, I realized my brother was a coward. It broke my heart: I knew he was uptight and highly indoctrinated by the clan, but I could have never imagined he was that bad – he wouldn’t even talk to her. He would only stare at her, without even smiling, and the worst part was that he didn’t even have to order his food because he had been there so many times already that the girl knew exactly what he was going to order way before he could even open his mouth.”

Genji paused and took a long breath. He seemed agitated by the retelling of the story, as if he was actually there again, with his brother, sitting side by side in that godforsaken little ramen shop – washed by frustration: the frustration of realizing his brother was not the man he thought he was.

“So one day, after leaving the shop, I decided to give him a little _push_. I knew he didn’t want any help – but I also knew he really liked this girl so perhaps I could do something to make him open his eyes and realize she wouldn’t be there forever.” He stared at one of the bottles for a while before continuing – then he shook his head pensively, his artificial hands lingering around his knees. “I told him – as bluntly as I could – that I liked her too. That if he wasn’t gonna make a move, then I would.”

McCree and Mercy stared intently at him.

Amelie didn’t.

“I thought he was gonna fight me… I thought he was going to punch me in the stomach or slap me hard across the face, right there in the middle of the street. But he didn’t. He just nodded his head… and I was furious. I had never thought he could be such a helpless idiot.”

“Did you really like this girl?” The sniper finally spoke.

“She was nice. Not the kind of girl that would usually catch my eye but still, she was fine. But fine for me was perfect for him – and he wasn’t even trying to put up a fight to stop me. When he walked on by and left me behind that day I understood my plan had backfired – he was never going to open his eyes, he was never going to try. I cursed him that day, like never before. I told him the most horrendous things – I asked him if it was easier that way because I knew he was already promised to some other girl, someone he didn’t like, someone he didn’t want to marry. But he was the heir – he was their fucking heir. I told him the clan had lobotomized him. He didn’t even look at me, didn’t say anything to me… anything at all. He just kept on walking.”

When they saw the storm in his eyes they all understood the story of the girl from the ramen shop was the premonition of everything that would eventually happen between the brothers: Hanzo caving in to the plans that the clan had forged for him, and the Sparrow, alone, struggling to get his brother back and failing every single time.

“I was blinded by fury, I wanted to smack him in the head but I knew that wouldn’t be enough.” Eyes distant and cold, he was reminiscing the beginning of his most futile war: the one he would ultimately lose to his own brother, to the very man he was trying to help. “So I ended up making a move myself.”

There were many nights from his youth that time had erased from his memory. The candor and luxuries of such a frivolous life, buried in the confines of his subconscious – the boy he was no more, the man he had never been, both versions of himself blended together in a continuous agora of past mirages. Yet that night, meaningful and meaningless at the same time, decided to stay inside the Sparrow’s mind, reminding him of the paradigmatic bond uniting him and separating him from his brother.

He closed his eyes and exhaled quietly before breathing life into the nebula of memories he was about to dust off.

He had returned to the little ramen shop that night, minutes after closing time. A part of him was hoping for his wish not to come true – perhaps the girl had gone home early that night, perhaps her family had a very strict sense of punctuality… but another part of him, the restless predator longing to wake his brother from his slumber, was already rejoicing in anticipation, imagining the girl alone in the restaurant, probably finishing the day’s work…

Alone, she was.

She was waiting for some friends to come pick her up, Friday night. Such lovely, lovely lights.

“Does your brother know that you’re here?” Was one of the very first things she said to him.

He nodded, the most mischievous grin lighting up his face.

Liar…

He offered her his company, and she accepted, even when her eyes seemed to be pleading for the Sparrow to turn into his own brother – as if magic was real, or as if wishes were about to be granted.

She liked Hanzo. She really did.

Perhaps she thought his intentions were innocuous. Maybe she thought he was as gentle as his brother – but soon the playboy took over, and it was only a matter of time until the shy, nice girl from the ramen shop felt victim of his endless charm. It was so easy for him, always had been -  in the end he knew, he was sure of it, she would end up choosing his social skills over those of a cave man.

He took her to a karaoke bar, far from his acquaintances, far from all his so-called friends. The things she had in common with his brother showed up rather sooner than later: for the life of her, and exactly like Hanzo, she couldn’t sing.

Still, he thought it was cute.

Cuter, at least, than Hanzo’s torturing notes and harmonies – but still, not enough to tantalize his ears.

She asked him about his brother. Not once, not twice, but a hundred times. _Is he always so shy? Is he always like this? Is he always…?_

He drank until his name became just another name. Yet the question remained.

_Is he? Really?_

_Is…_

_Does he even exist?_

After a couple empty glasses, he tried dancing. He took her hand in his and guided her to the dancefloor but again, and exactly like his brother, she couldn’t dance. Her graceless moves were those of a small child in the middle of a tantrum: dispossessed of all rhythm, like a virulent spasm.

She was exactly like his brother: dull, boring, apathetic. Those two belonged together he thought – she was just so different from the girls he was used to, so different from the boys he was used to… so different, so far from his reach, slipping through his fingers just like him – exactly like him.

Exactly like Hanzo.

They went back to their table. Many more drinks came and went between them yet he stayed sober, fighting the dazing calls of alcohol. With eyes wide open, he grabbed her hand in his for the very last time that night and they left the bar. The dark streets welcomed them, and the echo of their awkward laughter, as they walked on by.

He kissed her as soon as they had reached the little ramen shop. His hands sneaking under her clothes, as if trying to summon the dormant woman in her.

She was hesitant at first, pushing him slightly away from her body – so he gave her space, stroking her hair gently and whispering sweet words in her ear until he felt her lips reaching out for him.

He invited her over to Hanamura.

The doubt returned but this time, the ignition in her eyes was more than eloquent. The dimly lit streets found them once again, as they made their way back to the castle. Sneaking his companions in during the night was second nature for the younger Shimada. Still, he didn’t choose his room. He had a different destination in mind.

He guided her through endless corridors graced by the sweet perfume of the cherry blossoms dancing in the wind outside each window. It was easy to see the radiant spark in her eyes, subtly letting him know that she was enjoying each sight and each second of this borrowed time they were sharing.

They stopped by the old pagoda, the one their mother used to love so much, the one facing directly at Hanzo’s bedroom. Their love session quickly became a crescendo of sounds in unison; still, the girl from the ramen shop would not say the only word the Sparrow was dying to hear.

His name.

He wanted his brother to hear her while she moaned his name.

Up in his room, the heir was biting his lower lip in desperation. Those sounds and that voice, they could only belong to one person and one person alone. He got out of bed and opened his window yet it was dark outside – he could only distinguish the intimate carnival of silhouettes moving together in the distance… but that wasn’t merely enough.

He left his room and made his way to the old pagoda.

And then he saw them.

Genji stopped as soon as he sensed his brother’s presence. He didn’t look over his shoulder; he couldn’t afford to look at him. Still, he asked, like he always did whenever Hanzo would walk in on him.

_Brother, do you want to join?_

The pause was as irritating as it was heartbreaking. The doubt inside the heir, overcoming the fury he was feeling.

Genji tried to rejoice in his brother’s apparent weakness but his mind wondered: what was he going to do in case Hanzo accepted his invitation? Even when he knew, even when he was sure his brother would never say yes the doubt was still there, his hesitation clear and evident.

So he pushed harder, hiding his face in the soft space between her neck and her shoulder.

One last thrust to send them all right into oblivion.

And then she said it.

His name echoed through the night, freezing each actor in place.

Without saying a word, Hanzo turned around and went back to his room. After that night, he never returned to the little ramen shop. The following morning, a few minutes after breakfast, Genji finally confronted him – the argument was heated but Hanzo did not participate nor did he say a single word. He simply stared at his younger brother with a calm expression on his face and exhaled softly when he realized what was actually going on: Genji was mad at him, madder than he had ever seen his younger brother.

All things considered, it should have been the other way around, he pondered.

_Answer me._

_Lash out at me if you want, I know I deserve it._

_Punch me in the face._

_Do something._

_Just say something._

_Anything._

_Anything at all…_

“We’re going to be late for training, Genji.”

It was hard to go on and pretend that the night was still young and that their moods were still intact. Even if he had spared them the details, all of them could see the images transpiring through his abridged version of the story; each carefully selected word was not enough to mitigate or lessen the effects of such a painful memory. His eyes were darker than they had ever seen, and he could see his own latent obscurity spreading around the ones he loved the most: he had chosen to spill one of his darkest secrets for his boyfriend and his girlfriend to hear – even Amelie, the only woman who had ever shown a genuine interest in his brother, as confusing as the feeling connecting them was, had heard it.

He was not proud of what he had done. If only he had known, back then, nothing truly mattered, they were both beyond salvation back then – their fates had already been sealed.

“That’s why I think it’s weird – the fact that he likes you,” Genji said, even when his voice was only trying to breathe some life into the colorless thoughts inside his head. “I never thought he could feel that way ever again. Let alone act on it.”

“He hasn’t acted on it. So far, at least.” Amelie said. “You said it yourself, I was rejected by him.”

The Sparrow shook his head quietly, the shadow of a smile beginning to illuminate his eyes.

“He has been acting on it. And quite actively, if you ask me… His rejection was way more than a simple negative.” He offered, conciliatorily. 

The cowboy cleared his throat – the increasing number of empty bottles resting all around his feet was giving testimony that not even the hardest conversation could ruin the night for him. “I think…” he began, leaning back and letting his shoulders touch the wall behind him, “I think our boy Genji here is jealous of his older brother. He used to be the one always getting the hot chick, but now it seems to me that Hanzo is gonna take on that part.”

“But I do have a _hot chick_ – _and_ a rather handsome man, in spite of all the drinking.”

“Yeah, but we’re not just yours, pretty boy. We are _sharers_.”  McCree added, his words numb and somewhat moody.

“Anyway,” Genji continued, dismissing the cowboy with a simple movement of his hands and watching as the doctor quickly wrapped her arms around her most disheveled boyfriend. “If I had to be honest, I had my doubts about bringing my brother over… and not just because I know some of them are still dubious of him, expecting him to _finish his job_ … I didn’t know if, after all this time, he could still be _domesticated_.” He regretted using that word almost as soon as it had crossed the barrier of his lips yet he went on, determined. “I didn’t know if he could be just another one – he had always been the leader, his whole life had revolved around being in that position of absolute power, but here…”

“He has adapted quite well.” Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t Amelie the one saying that: it was Angela. “He’s been supportive, his discipline is remarkable and he works very hard. He’s dedicated.”  

The cowboy nodded in agreement although, this time, he preferred to keep his mouth shut.

“And you’ve been playing a rather crucial part in Hanzo’s adaptation.” The doctor finished, addressing Amelie with a tender look.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to point out,” Genji spoke, voice lively and louder than before. “You might think that I mock him too much, that I still pick on him, or make fun of him, but neither of you can see what you’ve been doing for him.” For the first time, in a really long time that night, his smile finally reached his eyes, “My brother always tended to leave people on the outside – always, even his closest friends, even me. Ever since we were but little kids he always had this invisible barrier all around him, preventing others from getting too close. I figured, when I was younger, that it was part of his training, that the distance between him and the rest of the world, even if only metaphorically, was needed, somehow. They needed to isolate him so they could fully indoctrinate him. When our father died and even sometime after Hanzo had already left the clan, he could still feel that distance stretching further and further – it gave him superiority, it gave him authority. Now he’s grown accustomed to solitude but in a very different way. Instead of demolishing all the invisible walls that the clan elders had built all around him he himself built up yet more walls secluding him from the rest of the world. I guess being a lonely mercenary requires that much from you… especially when you think you’re beyond redemption, and especially when you’re seeking atonement but you’re not willing to forgive yourself. It’s a trick for the mind, if you will, an endless domino that leads nowhere.” It was easy to notice Zenyatta’s teachings shining through the student’s words – his time with the Omnic had provided Genji with a renewed sense of introspection, a deeper knowledge of those around him. “Even today it still is intrinsically hard for me to try to break those walls and reach out to him…. Our bond was always ill-natured, too many different opinions came to play very early in our lives, contaminating the both of us – our ties were never simple and they will never be simple given the events of our past. But you’re halfway there, even if you can’t see it, Amelie. Rejected or not, you slept with him – two nights in a row, that’s definitely something.”

Her eyes found his, the ignition inside her irises making room for her newborn emotions to reach the surface.

“He thinks our stories are intertwined, somehow…” She commented, “Thinks we have this darkness in common… this… thirst for light. And it keeps me there, near him, but every time I tried to get closer he just closes off, leaving me on the outside, looking in.”

“I understand what he has found in you: if you can find hope, then maybe he can too – and that could have been his greatest motivation in the beginning but now… now there’s something more, you can’t deny it.” The doctor whispered, causing both the ninja and the sniper to look in her direction: the cowboy was asleep in her arms, his hat covering his face.

They smiled at the image for a brief instant, allowing its simple grace to warm them up inside. Amelie reached out for Genji, cupping one of his hands with her own:

“It’s not easy. I saw those connections in the beginning – I could relate as well. But lately…” her hazy eyes seemed clouded by doubt, “I understand what the clan did to him… but every time I look at you I can see myself: the damage is done, the wounds are real.” She stood up, getting ready to leave – then she leaned over, and kissed the doctor on the cheek before saying:

“This morning, in Hanzo’s room, you said you two had never fought over a woman. But your story…”

“We never fought over her. _He_ never fought for her.” Genji concluded. “That was the last time I tried to help him open his eyes and see the one he was becoming… but after that girl, I saw the bigger picture: my brother was nobody. They had made an abstraction out of him: my brother was not a person, not anymore. My brother was power. Intangible. Unreachable. Inexistent – untouchable.” He observed her as she stretched her legs, getting ready to walk back to her room. When she leaned over to plant a soft kiss on his cheek the Sparrow looked her in the eye and asked:

“What do you want with him?” He was determined to be blunt: as blunt as can be. “Do you want to fuck him, or do you want something more?”

She stared at him in silence, dubious of her own irresolution. McCree saved her from herself, as he yawned loudly and stretched his arms over his head.

“You’re leavin’?”

Amelie nodded. “It’s getting late, Jesse.”

“We talked so much about Hanzo, maybe we should have invited him too.” The cowboy said as he kicked the empty bottles aside.

The doctor ran her hands through his hair and rearranged his hat for him – “Maybe we should have…” she considered, standing up and joining Amelie.

“Just one last thing…” Genji’s voice found her with renewed intent, forcing her to turn around and meet his gaze. “Does he ever talk about me?”

She didn’t want to let him down – but she couldn’t find the strength to lie to his face either.

“We talked about you earlier this afternoon.” She said.

The Sparrow furrowed his brow, expecting the woman to go on.

“We were talking about your penis.”

The cowboy laughed out loud, snorting and slapping his knees.

“What about my penis?” Genji asked, visibly shocked by the revelation.

Amelie folded her arms over her chest, suppressing a smile and trying her best to keep her composure. She couldn’t look at Angela now. She just couldn’t.

“We were debating whether your penis is human or artificial.”

Genji’s mouth was agape, and his cheeks were turning red - the cowboy was laughing even louder than before. Angela’s giggles, albeit shy, were beginning to ring inside their ears. 

“Oh, I got both versions.” Genji managed to say, still shocked by the topic they’ve chosen but clearly trying to make a good come back. “We couldn’t decide, really, and since I got a boyfriend and a girlfriend we thought having two penises could be useful, you know? In the long run…”

“The long run?!” McCree laughed manically, feeling his belly starting to ache.

“We also talked about you, cowboy.” Amelie turned around, helping Genji. “Hanzo thinks one of your mechanical fingers is secretly a vibrator.”

The laughter stopped. He was dead serious now.

He stood up and walked up to her.

“Just _one_ finger?” His silver-colored hand was lingering right before her eyes, “He thinks only one of my fingers is a vibrator? All my fingers are vibrators, sweetheart. Except for the thumb ‘cause, you know, the thumb is… the thumb is weird.”

Amelie covered her face with one of her hands yet it wasn’t enough to keep the laughter inside. They all exploded simultaneously, the loud bursting of their laughing and the warmth of all those tears of completely senseless joy prevented the group from noticing the two men approaching them.

“Genji,” Hanzo said, keeping his distance, admiring the cheerful scene from afar. “Winston needs us.” Standing right by his side, 76 took off his visor and stared deeply into Angela’s eyes. It wasn’t hard for them to see that he was having trouble trying to understand the dynamics of their love – still, he struggled, as his eyes composed and decomposed the scene a hundred times in only a fraction of a second.

“What is it?” The doctor spoke, her eyes unable to leave the aged face of that man, as if trying to find the Jack she had loved and lost so long ago.

“Please, come with me.” The older Shimada said, already turning around and walking towards the exit. He didn’t even stop to look at her – he had seen more than enough. The way she was laughing, how she seemed to fit in almost perfectly… he couldn’t afford to delve any deeper into those images: ever since meeting each other, they hadn’t needed anybody else but now… now she was slipping through his fingers, laughing with others, spending her time with them.

It used to be just the two of them. Complicated, twisted, wordless. But just the two of them.

Genji hurried up and joined his brother.

The rest of the group followed the Sparrow in silence, keeping their distance, wondering what was going on. The vigilante closed the huge hangar doors as soon as everyone had abandoned the place – his imperturbable gaze meeting Amelie’s with renewed discord: that woman had exposed him.

Now she was laughing with the only woman he had ever loved.

.

.

.

**IV – Homecoming**

They weren’t allowed inside Winston’s office, Morrison had been pretty clear: the scientist wanted to speak with both Shimada brothers - alone. Yet he didn’t stay with the rest of the group to wait for the siblings. He simply left them in the dimly lit corridor; their backs leaned against the wall.

They couldn’t hear anything. They weren’t yelling at each other, they weren’t screaming from the top of their lungs. That strange type of tranquility gave way for uncertainty to become anticipation. None of them said a word – the cowboy had his hands on the doctor’s shoulders, his lips were pressed tightly together. Angela seemed distressed by the whole situation – even when she was trying her best to conceal her concern behind a fake smile. Amelie noticed this, but still reciprocated the gesture with genuine affection.

It was late, it was unexpected.

It was challenging – for everyone.

Nearly an hour later, Winston finally opened the door for the Shimada brothers to go back to their quarters.  They walked side by side until they found the ones waiting for them – then distance overcame them once again as Genji joined his lovers and Hanzo moved closer to Amelie.

“What’s going on?” The Frenchwoman asked, not even waiting for the lovers to be gone.

“They’ve been going through the information you and 76 collected during your last mission.” Hanzo began. “It’s not much, and I myself believe it’s a bit far-fetched, but there’s reason to believe Talon has begun operating in Japan. Winston believes they’re trying to recruit former members of our clan.”

“I thought the Shimada clan was no more,” Angela said, acting cautiously yet intrigued by the archer’s words. She abandoned her men and moved closer to the snipers.

Hanzo nodded his head in silent agreement, before continuing:

“There’s a ship waiting to take us both back home. We leave in an hour.”

“Back to Hanamura?” The doctor retorted – “Just the two of you?” It was frightening to even say those words out loud.

Both brothers nodded, staring at each other as if no-one was watching and sharing a peaceful kind of silence that still seemed foreign to them. Genji walked up to Angela, grabbing her by her wrists and pulling her close: she was worried; there was no denying it, no hiding it from their eyes – and her reasons were irrefutable.

“We both agreed that, after all this time, for once, we could use Hanamura for something good.” The Sparrow explained, staring intently into Angela’s eyes now. “That place has been coated in blood in the past – it has shielded criminals and it has divided us, for far too long.” Hanzo nodded his head in silence, admiring his brother in a way he had never experienced before, “Watchpoint: Tokyo does not exist anymore – but even if it did, we cannot afford the luxury of being that blunt.”

McCree joined them, a serious expression taking over his face.

“We are not even supposed to be here – you have a point.” He said, folding his arms over his chest. “Still, don’t you think going back to Hanamura, together, is an equally blunt move?”

“Could be.” The archer said, “but as heirs, as the legitimate owners of Shimada Castle, we would only be claiming what is rightfully ours. We’ll go first, see the place, find out if there’s still someone in there – old maids, I presume… Once we establish Hanamura is a safe place for us to operate, a small team will be joining us. We already told Winston: the three of you are top priorities in the list of names we suggested for this mission. We know it’s not entirely up to us, but please know we did our best. ”

Silence enveloped the entire group as the brothers began to imagine what could be one of the most crucial images of their lives: the gates of Hanamura, receiving the dragons in all their magnificence.

Leaving the corridor, the brothers walked to their respective quarters. They didn’t have any time to waste.

The dragons, together, were going home.

.

.

.

**V – The Girl From the Ramen Shop**

She followed him through the dimly lit corridors of Gibraltar and back to his room. She stayed outside, her hands planted on the door for some stability. When she entered his room, the archer was already packing up most of his stuff. She sat down on his bed almost soundlessly and watched him as he folded his clothes in a rather parsimonious way – judging by his simple movements, he was more than used to leaving in the middle of the night.

When he took off his training shirt she could finally catch a glimpse of the red lines that spread along his collarbone; the souvenirs that her twisted kind of love had left for him to remember her. Then she stood up, walked up to him and let her fingers trace the capricious patterns. Soft to the touch, yet immensely wrong in their violent nature, the signs of her affection still caused nothing but pain.

Dismissing the candor in her eyes, the Japanese man selected a black dress shirt from his wardrobe and put it on. A matching black tie completed the image: the heir was returning home, not a beggar, not a poor soul seeking balance. For a brief moment she could have sworn even the look in his eyes had changed: it seemed colder now, more distant and calculative than before.

Maybe he was still mad at her for everything that had happened between them during their last training session.

Maybe the former crime lord was taking over, subtly transforming the frailty of that wounded man she had known during his stay in Gibraltar.

“It’s alright, Amelie” He spoke softly as he rearranged his tie. He had noticed her. He had.

She shook her head once but before inertia had a chance to return her neck to its original position, the man grabbed her chin and pressed his lips to hers but if she had to be honest with herself, his kiss didn’t feel like a kiss. It felt like a scorching seal, secluding a very specific moment as if he was trying to commit it to memory – a seal locking up a selected portion of the time they had shared.

Shivers ran down her spine: his lips were determined, yet they were intrinsically cold and definitive.

He turned around and went back to his wardrobe and there she stayed, frozen in the epicenter of his room. Her arms hanging loosely at the sides of her body – her eyes, as if searching, as if trying to identify which version of him was there with her now.

Dark, he was – but even if the beast living inside was bright enough to light him up she could only see bits and pieces taking form all around him, never the whole man.

“Genji told me about you and the girl from the ramen shop.” She said.

“Why would he even tell you that?” He didn’t stop to look at her, didn’t even try to address the curiosity missing in her voice but alive and afire inside her eyes, “Such a dull story anyways.”

“It wasn’t dull.” She said, “Not in the slightest.”

He put on a long, black coat. His eyes still distant.

“You sure about that?” He said, going back to the bed. He began packing up again, nearly oblivious of her presence. “Boy likes girl but girl doesn’t like him back. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

She felt like crying. Even when she didn’t know exactly why.

She fought back the tears. Standing up, she motioned her body towards his, stopping only inches away from where he was.

“You were a coward.”

Only then he stopped. He looked up at her, a half smile curling up his lips.

“Say that again.” He challenged her.

He didn’t give her any time to speak. He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her towards his bed. Pinning her shoulders down, he forced her to sit beside him. The woman stared at him with dubious eyes – she was sure she had stepped out of line with her last remark yet she was positive he wasn’t looking for her fear.

“I really liked her.” he breathed out, his hand landing on her nearest knee, “But that was not enough.”

“But you didn’t do anything… you just let your brother sleep with her as if you didn’t care.”

“I cared too much. That’s why I didn’t do anything.”

The heir seemed lost, reminiscing a time that was never coming back. The clothes he was wearing, the renewed solemnity in his voice… all foolish charades in a game of shallow appearances for the prying eyes not to see the real man struggling underneath it all.

“She was very shy… nice and caring, but mostly shy. I wasn’t an expert on love back then, I still have much to learn today… but soon I noticed her father would constantly try to get her to speak to me.” He explained, eyes clouded by long-lost images. “One thing I knew for sure: the clan members would never approve – I was the heir, I was already promised to somebody else… and there I was, falling for the girl who worked at the ramen shop.”

“But your brother… all his freedom,”

“My brother was not the heir.” He cut her off, removing his hand. “He tried his best to lure me into his liberties, even when he knew I had no other choice but to remain loyal to the life I was meant to lead.” His jawline was rigid, he was gritting his teeth venomously, “He knew nothing of responsibilities – always sheltered under my father’s wings. Still, I loved him, deeply.” He stopped before the contrasting emotions could get the best of him, allowing her some time to collect her thoughts, and offered her his hand in response. Genji’s words rang inside her head: the way the story ended, what the Sparrow had done to his older brother, how pointless it had been for both siblings in the end.

He looked down, and stared at his own calloused hands – the warmth emanating from her fingers was spreading across his skin, contagious and persistent, as if trying to wake him up from his languorous slumber.

“I never knew if she liked me back or not, but I knew finding out was risky – especially for her.” He whispered, “That’s why I chose to just stare at her every day… It wasn’t much, but all things considered… it was enough.”

“All things considered?”

“Like I told you, the clan elders were never going to accept her, so the less they knew about her, the better. Plus, her father seemed… quite interested in the possibility of us getting together, and who could blame him? I thought it wouldn’t be fair for her to be dragged down to the yakuza just to please her father’s ambitions. I was a big shot back then, everybody knew who I was. And she was just a nice, shy girl. Who was I to force her into all that shit?”

Her mouth agape, the words were fighting to escape her constricted throat.

“You were protecting her?”

Hanzo nodded in silence.

The notion dawned inside of her like the most obvious revelation ever: it’s not that they had led different types of lives; it had never been a matter of freedom versus duty. The brothers had never understood each other – that’s why, even if they tried, they could have never overcome such unbearable barriers. Genji was a challenge; a transgression. Hanzo was history and obligation.  Genji was rebellion. Hanzo was tradition. Genji fucked the girl because he saw the doubt in Hanzo, slipping through the cracks in his determination. _He almost said yes, only once…_ He only wanted to make sure his brother heard her moaning his name – yet his name, the intrinsic symbol of everything he was and everything his brother was not, was nothing but a sound… a simple, meaningless sound in a sea of unintelligible echoes.

Moved by him and his unspoken defeat, the woman moved closer and wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. He seemed stiffed by her touch, like a lifeless statue with no trace of a soul.

When he finally moved, he freed himself from her. He grabbed his bag and motioned towards the door.

Trepidation invaded her then, as she stood up as well, and let her hands rest on his back. He didn’t turn around, his fingers already toying with the doorknob – his eyes were closed.

“Hanzo…”

The man took a deep breath before turning around to meet her gaze. His movements were deliberatively slow now.

“Once the mission is complete, you _will_ be coming back. Won’t you?”

His stare was long but vacant. For the very first time, ever since meeting that man, she hated the silence he had to offer.

“Hanzo…”

He grabbed her furiously by her waist, her back slamming hard against the door, and pinned her hands over her head. Then he kissed her, fiercely, desperately. Her tongue, numb at first but showing some signs of life as seconds went by, tried its best to keep up but his spirit was restless – merciless. When he finally put her down she was a complete mess – breathless, covered in sweat. The heat subsided, making room for cold shivers to run down her spine. Through the black of his shirt, all the way up from his forearm to his shoulder, she could see the misty sparkling of a blue she knew too well to ignore.

She traced the outline of his jaw with trembling fingers yet he removed her hand.

“I may not know a single thing about love but you, Amelie… you really need to get your shit together.”

The reprimand, long overdue and colder than what she had expected, helped her realize that her confusing love was not his love. If anything, he was only trying to push her away, just like he had done all those years ago. She could scream someone else’s name from the top of her lungs and it wouldn’t matter: the clan was no more, but the chains had not been broken – the man staring back at her was still a prisoner of the trap they had built all around him.

He was content that way, admiring her from afar, keeping his distance.

He could allow her to sleep on his bed, to take off her clothes…

But he didn’t need her troubled mind to come toy with him. He didn’t need that. He didn’t need anything.

Anything at all.

She grabbed his shoulders before he could leave the room. Even without knowing what to say or what to do, she felt the urge to stop him, felt the need to look at him, just one last time.

His mouth found hers again, devouring her whole and consuming the little air still left in her – soon she found herself realizing that, if kisses were speeches, his were definitely monologues. Before parting, he trapped her lower lip between his teeth and didn’t stop until he tasted her blood. Then he licked his own lips, looking satisfied.

“Now we’re even.” He said.

And he left.


	4. Judas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “After everything she’s been through she only gravitates towards others trying to experience what she once called love, lust, even trust. Now the untrained eye might find her interactions entertaining, warm even – genuine. But trust me, she feels closer to no one.”
> 
> “Are we still talking about Amelie, Hanzo?” The Sparrow smiled underneath his helmet, “Because that’s the most accurate description of yourself I’ve ever heard.”

_Introduction: Of Blood and Rain._

It was hard to see. The curtain of rain before her eyes was blinding – but, she knew, it was not enough: the veil hiding the truth from her was slowly beginning to disappear in the misty form of a stormy night.

The pinkish clouds that had rolled by during the afternoon had darkened and, exactly like his moods, they had brought the rain and the wind. Only the three of them were standing there, with their feet anchored to the ground and their bodies, languid and nearly exhausted, only inches away from the threshold.

The hangar, large and vacant, stretched itself before them with a silence that knew no harmony. The brothers were gone and with them, gone were the sleepless nights and the tender smiles that now seemed faded in the howling wind outside that space – colorless and eerie, the echoes of their joy reverberating all around them and yet, producing no sound at all.

It seemed that, in a way, they had taken everything with them.

Gone were the days when they were young and free.

As the gates closed behind their backs, the doctor, the sniper and the cowboy looked down, as if defeated. The sullen discord in their eyes, in perfect concordance with the furious thunder, was speaking about a million different uncertainties placed far beyond their reach. The persistent question mutated as it traveled from face to face – the doctor feared the worst, the cowboy was worried about her but the sniper… the sniper was still trapped inside a potential goodbye.

Deep down she knew, she was almost certain of it: the heir would not be coming back.

Oblivious to the sniper’s inconclusive farewell, the cowboy curled his arms around the doctor and pressed her tightly to his chest. Each sorrow they possessed, like each drop falling from the sky, had conveyed a different meaning. Who were the ones supposed to ride the storm now; the ones traveling the world inside that ship, or the ones they had left behind...

Somber as the night, the doctor broke the embrace and gazed up at the sniper.

“There’s blood on your lips.” She said as a timid finger began to trace the crimson souvenir that the dragon had carved into the sniper’s lower lip.

Yet the Frenchwoman only nodded in silence.

And went back to her room.

.

.

.

* * *

 Variations on a Theme

Act IV

**Judas**

* * *

  _“A tongue like yours should be burned and branded.”_

Sara Bareilles ― Lie to me

* * *

 

.

.

.

**I – Day 1**

When the gates closed behind their backs, the brothers exhaled loudly at the scene of a deserted Hanamura. Not much had changed, at least visually, but deep inside they both knew that even if their house seemed to have endured the cruel test of time, nothing really was the same anymore.

Hanzo was the first to venture his bones further into the compound, leaving his brother behind, even if only momentarily. Nostalgia becoming him with every step he took, the older Shimada had to shake his head to prevent his heart from falling for all those mirages coming to greet him, like the subtle movement of the leaves in the tepid winds, resembling the way his mother’s skirt would usually dance around her ankles during the summer; or the stern shadows covering up every stone in his path, exactly like his father’s indefatigable guidance through his youth. This return felt so different from all those other times when he would sneak in, like a thief in the night, to try to honor the memory of the brother he himself had killed.

The sun in the sky, the compass that had guided them home, was more than a symbolic flag for them to feel like they truly belonged there. Children of the night no more, the present seemed as bright and diaphanous as a brand new day – still the reality of the ones they had become was still traveling alongside them, venturing the light they had found in spite of all the darkness they still carried within.

They continued their way through Shimada castle in complete silence, taking a few moments to carefully inspect each room with the circumspect respect of those who know about loss as a means to revisit their own misfortune. Yet everything changed once they reached the kitchen: hidden behind the large, black counter, a group of people was waiting for them.

The cyborg ninja stood still by the door, signaling his brother to be cautious in his approach. A stern Hanzo dismissed his younger brother’s suggestion as he scoffed casually, and moved to rest his elbows on the counter. Much to his surprise, the sights of yesterday came to his aid as, one by one, all those long forgotten faces became a living memory pulsating right through him. The family inside the family, he reckoned with a quiet smile upon his face, had survived oblivion.

Her gray hair was barely showing right above the edge. Her old arms, like houses, sheltering the ones she cared about most…

Meisa, the maid from their youth, the one always rushing behind them or helping their mother; the one who had gained Sojiro’s trust after years and years of hard work and loyalty – the one Hanzo had avoided, by all means possible, right after attacking Genji.

Those eyes, he knew, they could really see it all.

Now time had taken its toll on her, reducing her shape and wrinkling her skin. An old lady now, still surviving through the hourglass of complete despondency, finding solace in the embrace of her own family, the one she had procured for herself: her three daughters, and her five grandchildren.

As soon as he realized who it was that had been waiting for them, the archer turned around and gazed at his brother but before he could even beckon Genji to join him, the ninja’s loud guffaw made him turn and look over his shoulder once again only to find Meisa holding a large rolling pin in her hands, eager to strike the unwanted visitor.

“Meisa-sama!” Hanzo shouted, “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

The woman put the rolling pin down on the counter and stared at him with puzzled eyes: she had imagined, many, many times, what the boys she had helped raise would look like as adults. Still that aged version of the Hanzo she had once known differed greatly from the visions in her sugar-coated mind: the expensive suit seemed nothing but a poorly constructed charade made to conceal the real man behind the frivolity that is clothing.

She had heard some rumors about him or, to be quite honest, she had heard the stories that the elders of the clan had told after he disappeared. If only he had stuck around long enough to put all those rumors to rest… all those mouths calling him a traitor, a crooked, corrupted heir would have known the real meaning of silence. The Hanzo she had known back in the day, albeit absorbed in responsibilities and pressure, would have never attacked his own brother. No, the brand new leader, brokenhearted after Genji’s tragic passing, must have felt the need to erase that rotting apple from his life, succumbing to exile as a way to protect his own sanity.

It was utterly useless to try to hold back the tears now. Soon her fragile arms were braced around his broad shoulders, pulling him closer to her chest as he finally indulged himself in the tender embrace of his very own childhood. Neither of them had the courage to speak for several moments – even the ninja, still standing by the door, silenced his laughter as he folded his silver arms across his torso. The old woman gazed up at the mysterious figure watching them from a comfortable distance, her chin landing gently on the archer’s shoulder.

“Just like when we were little kids…” Genji whispered, “I guess some things never change.”

His unmistakable voice, even if synthesized by artificial tricks, made her see beyond the metal binding him, beyond the years and beyond death itself. She let go of Hanzo, slowly, almost as if her heart could betray her if she were to make any sudden movements. Behind them, still sheltered by the counter, her family struggled to remember the tale of the fallen dragon and his brother through the misty haze of their own past.

“I thought… I thought he was your bodyguard.” The old maid whispered. She stared at Hanzo, a question burning inside her irises – the archer looked down, sensing his guilt overcoming him once again with renewed tenacity. He simply shook his head in response, as he watched his brother take off his visor and helmet for the woman to look into his eyes after so many years. She moved towards the Sparrow, trapping him inside her arms: unlike Hanzo, she clearly didn’t care about his looks or his physical appearance. Unlike Hanzo, she could still see the same old Genji inside those brown eyes of his.

The way she cried, like heaven and hell had collided all around her… There would be time for words, they knew. The dragons were home now.

.

.

.

**II – Day 3**

Amelie checked her phone for the millionth time as she walked down the corridor, headed for the conference room. Winston, Amari and 76 had made a decision regarding the Hanamura case and even when she knew it was only a matter of time before her name was called to join the brothers in Japan, the truth was that she hadn’t heard from Hanzo ever since the archer’s departure.

He had never returned her calls, never replied to her messages.

It was hard for the woman to even try to break away from the feeling. It seemed too personal, too straightforward in spite of his lack of words. The urgency of his last kisses, the ambivalent moods he had shown during the last moments they had spent together and his inability to answer a simple question: _you will be coming back, won’t you?_ were giving testimony to her doubt.

Now the information she could get about him was scarce, to say the least. Like a starving pigeon, feeding on crumbs, the cowboy and the doctor would tell her about the long calls they would share with their beloved ninja – ever gently they would pat her shoulder and assure her that they were fine. That perhaps Hanzo was tired, working hard, organizing everything for the team to be as comfortable and safe as humanly possible… little did they knew about her genuine concern – his apathy and his lack of communication, waltzing with his gentle silence and transforming it into an abominable abyss of darkness and distance.

She took a seat right next to Angela but before she could put the phone back in her pocket, the doctor cupped her hand with her own.

“He _will_ call.” She said, grinning softly at the sniper. “Just give him some time… I can’t imagine what it must feel like to go back home after such a long time, after everything they went through.”

Of course, the doctor was right, Amelie knew. The question regarding why Genji had found the time to communicate with them while Hanzo hadn’t could be answered in a rather simplistic sort of way: the cowboy, the ninja and the doctor were in a relationship – compromise and commitment were a reality for the three of them. What she and Hanzo had could not be fully explained nor understood, not even by them.

Letting go of Mercy’s gentle touch, the Frenchwoman retrieved her hand and smiled politely. No matter how logic her arguments were, the disturbing feeling of rejection would not leave her be.

Jesse was the last to join the group of agents waiting patiently inside the conference room. A quick tip of his hat, followed by a playful smirk was all it took for the charming gunman to make them all forgive and forget his unpunctuality.  Without much delay, Amari took the lead and explained that four agents were to be deployed in the following days. The chosen agents would arrive separately to avoid suspicion, and they would, one by one, join the Shimada brothers in Hanamura. Faces changed surreptitiously then: not everyone knew that the brothers had returned home, least that they were on their own.

The moment of terror was brief, as trepidation jumped from visage to visage. Winston helped them out of their obscure trance by explaining that Talon was trying to reform the fallen Shimada clan by hiring its former operatives – Genji and Hanzo were merely keeping an eye on the exact spot that could become ground zero in the not-so-distant future: the beginning of Talon’s operations in the Japanese territory. But while the cowboy and the doctor kept their heads down, Amelie entertained her eyes with the puzzled expressions taking center stage all around her: none of those agents seemed to fully trust Hanzo. Realization hit her, then, as a timid grin curled up her lips: Genji had been a controversial figure for his own clan and family back in the day, and now, ironically enough, it was Hanzo the one following his younger brother’s steps, becoming the controversial figure for Overwatch to wonder whether he could be trusted with his brother’s life or not.

“We have come to the decision, after speaking with both Hanzo and Genji, that securing Shimada castle and setting up a safe perimeter for our team to work should be our top priority at the moment,” Morrison said. “That is why we’ve chosen Satya. We are sure your sentry turrets can act as an alarm system, providing security for the rest of our agents.”

The sophisticated woman nodded her head in silent agreement, feeling a little bit spoiled by Morrison’s words but accepting her skills, feeling proud of her own achievements.

The sniper, the doctor and the cowboy stood up and left the room. The meeting was over, yet the turmoil in their heads had only just begun: four agents were to join the Shimada brothers in Hanamura but, contrary to their beliefs and in spite of their confidence and what the brothers themselves had told them, none of their names had been called.

.

.

.

**III – Day 4**

“Just out of curiosity, what made you think he was my bodyguard, Meisa-sama?” Hanzo asked as he sat up on the bed and stretched his arms over his head. The back of his neck was aching, just like it usually did during the morning. The maid pulled out the blinds and let the light in – then she set the silver tray that was waiting by the nightstand on Hanzo’s lap and waited… even when they hadn’t really talked about his reasons and his motivations, the old lady didn’t really need to know what had brought them back home: for the first time in more than a decade, she had a master again and while there would always be time to talk, the brothers were the legitimate heirs – there was no denying that.

“The way he was waiting for you…” She began, sitting down on the edge of the bed and watching as the archer sipped the green tea she had brewed for him.

“Where are the men?” he asked, setting the cup down on the tray again and crossing his arms over his bare chest, “Your sons?”

For the most fleeting of instants, he saw the disappointment in her eyes setting in, and making a home out of those tired irises of hers. Then she exhaled loudly through parted lips, “I knew miracles don’t really exist, but I swear Hanzo… when I saw it was you… I thought God himself had sent you back home to make things right.”

The question had burned the back of his throat when he found them that day, hidden behind the kitchen counter – yet it had been so long and the commotion was so strong it was impossible to reason and act logically as a consequence. Meisa-sama was a mother of five: three girls and two boys, twin brothers, three years younger than Genji.

“They took them.” The woman confessed, “That’s why I thought you had returned home – perhaps you had heard about them, and had decided to come over and help us.” She looked down, “But since you didn’t even know about them, that possibility seems unlikely now.”

Hanzo cupped her hands with his own as the ninja approached the scene – the green lights of his visor flickered relentlessly, trying to catch his brother’s attention.

“Meisa-sama,” Genji began, gently allowing his artificial hands to land on the old maid’s shoulders, “who took your sons?”

Silence engulfed them all, for a little while. Then the woman beckoned Genji to join them on the bed and the ninja obliged patiently.

She gazed over at Hanzo, then back down at her own hands.

“Ever since you left; ever since the clan fell apart, I stayed here with my family. I know that it wasn’t the right thing to do – but your father and your mother had done so much for us that the least we could do was to remain here, and keep the place safe in case, someday, you decided to come back home.” A timid smile began to show at the corners of Hanzo’s mouth but he remained silent, “All this time, we’ve been here – taking care of the place, honoring your parents’ graves… we pretty much acted as if nothing had changed; routine stayed the same for us, and you can see it – we didn’t throw away anything, we didn’t move a single piece of furniture…”

“But what did you do for a living during all these years?” Genji asked.

The woman shrugged her shoulders innocently, and then she said:

“The only thing we could do: my daughters and I began to work for other families – raising their children, cleaning their houses… My boys were always rather handy men, so they didn’t have much trouble finding jobs around town. Money was tight, but we were never big spenders. All we could manage to earn ensured the security of this place, that’s how we could afford to pay for each bill and each tax. We lead lives that require no luxuries, so my only concern was to keep their bellies full and their hearts content. Every time something would break, my sons would fix it…”

“Thank you,” Hanzo interrupted her, “for everything.”

“About a week ago, some men came. We didn’t recognize them at first; it had been so long… They were former clan members.” she remembered, “They said the clan was regrouping, under new management, they joked… they wanted my sons to join, said they needed as many men as possible, and that even if the twins had never been involved in the clan’s activities, they would be welcome to join now.” She paused, her eyes tearing up, “We knew something was wrong – what they were going to do with my sons? Unlike former clan members, they were never trained; they wouldn’t know what to do…”

Genji stopped her just in time before her tears could roll down her cheeks. With gentle digits, he massaged her temples, helping her relax.

“What happened then?” Hanzo inquired, leaning forward on the bed, arms still crossed over his chest.

“My boys were an excuse for them to come… but nothing more.” Meisa let out softly. “But by the time we realized, they were already inside. They attacked us, but the twins protected us as best they could until the clan members knocked them down and dragged them out of the castle.”

With a forlorn sigh, the archer finally got out of bed and walked towards the window: perhaps this whole Talon operation in Japan was more personal for him and his brother than what he had dared to imagine.

“They said they would be back.” He heard her say. “We protected this place as much as we could but I suspect they never wanted my sons to join; that was merely an excuse to come over and see what was left of the castle with their own eyes…”

“And so, they learned that the place was still intact, thanks to you and your family,” Genji said and the woman nodded in silence.

With a heavy heart, the Shimada brothers came to the conclusion that Meisa-sama and her family, in their innocent attempt to protect the monuments of the Shimada history, had only put themselves at arm’s length. First, the men had been taken away and surely the women and their children would follow, in time, one by one they would all disappear in the sinister shades and shadows of the residual violence of a broken, criminal empire commanded by an even darker mind: Talon.

“Do you think they will come back?” Her question brought him back to reality. Hanzo looked over his shoulder and nodded once, a stern look written all over his face: all his life, he had been prepared, trained and groomed to lead an empire – an empire that ultimately fell apart, breaking bonds that should have remained sacred and untouched. His mistakes were a debt he would never be able to repay – not to himself, and definitely not to his brother but this chance, this brand new chance to finally become the leader of the Shimada and break away from the chains of yesterday was more than what he could ask for.

The Shimada were no more – now it was completely up to him and his brother to breathe life into the name once again; to twist and bend the old paths of vices and violence and turn it into something good. With his hands at the sides of his waist, the archer turned around and took a good look at the room where he was staying: that room, the one he had rejected during his brief period as kumicho, had once belonged to his parents. Time was a feeble substance; after all, mocking the mind, tricking the heart… he was now as big as his father had been back then, as strong as he had been. Yet his fragile stability was an insult to his father’s determination. His doubts and his suffering, a slap in the face of the doctrine that had molded him ever since he was a little child.

When Genji removed his visor and gazed over at Hanzo, the archer understood that for their mission to succeed, it would be necessary to let the old maid in – her own family was on the line as well, he knew. Their paths had converged once more, subjugated underneath the oppressing hand of the same instigator.

He asked for her discretion and the old woman obliged. She had two sons to save, and a flourishing family to protect.

Hanzo told her everything he knew – every single thing he knew about Talon, his own days as an Overwatch agent, the reunion with his brother and the very reason that had brought them both back home after a lifetime of suffering and distance. The last thing he told her was the little information they had regarding their current mission – if he had to be honest, they didn’t know much about Talon’s true motives or strategies but they were positive they were onto something big.

The woman nodded wordlessly, trying her best to absorb the news as best as humanly possible. Hanamura, once again, was the epicenter of their lives only now a darker specter was trying to drag them all down the same hellish road they had been forced to travel before. The Shimada was never a clan of saints – they had known the ways of blood and violence but they had also let that blood run and flow into a bond that extended itself far beyond themselves. What the elders did to Hanzo, what Hanzo did to Genji seemed destined to happen as part of a convoluted bond, pure and malignant at the same time. But after all those years, after all those tears and after filling their lungs with the brimstone and the sulfur of such a sacred curse, now they just couldn’t allow a new nightmare to come play with those memories, to resurrect the dead and make them all heretics in their own faith.

A tacit pact sealed their return. The heir was back, reclaiming what was rightfully his and making sure no one could toy with the memory of his loved ones. The Sparrow, by his side, remained as a stoic reminder of everything that can and will go wrong when love and blood become the same corrupt element.

* * *

 

It was simply impossible to even try to soothe the good doctor now – the news had made her snap, and even when the cowboy was trying hard not to let go from her as she hid her face against his chest, it was impossible for the man not to feel the discord growing between them. Her blue eyes glared up, scorching his sight, asking the impossible.

A second name had been called. Another seat had just been taken – but the three of them were still left standing there, in the impervious corridors of darkness and uncertainties.

They had chosen Zenyatta.

The cold numbers were stating that one of them wouldn’t be joining the Shimada brothers in Hanamura. It was an obvious fact, after all, that one of them was destined to be left out in such circumstances, and while the cowboy and the French sniper were doing their best to console the brokenhearted doctor, there was not much they could do to make her feel better.

Unspoken and tacit, like a frightening truth none of them dared to say out loud, the three of them knew that with the monk joining the small team in Japan there was little room for the doctor to be deployed as well: if they wanted to keep things simple, if the team was meant to be functional and small, having two healers could break the dynamism of their actions. Zenyatta was more than a friendly voice, more than an endless pool of knowledge and comprehension – his harmony orbs could heal, and it was a fact.

Breathless, the doctor sat down on the cold floors of Gibraltar and allowed her battered back to kiss the wall behind her shape. Amelie and Jesse stayed close to her, trying to comfort her, to make her feel she was not alone.

They exchanged glances in silence as Angela held her head between her hands: it was not necessary for them to say such things out loud, but deep down both the sniper and the cowboy were sure that Zenyatta’s choice hadn’t been an arbitrary one. The monk had helped Genji through his darkest years, giving him purpose, helping him embrace the very notion of acceptance. Now that fate had played with their past and the dragons had returned home together, it wasn’t so crazy to think that Genji would want his spiritual mentor to help him through such a transcendental experience.

Yet the logical arguments inside their heads were not enough to placate the voiceless echoes waltzing inside the doctor’s head: perhaps they were trying to protect her from Talon’s cruel claws; maybe they were right, perhaps two healers was a bit much… But she still couldn’t shake the image of a broken Genji and even when the Sparrow would call, even if he would always say to her that they were alright, a part of her was left with no other choice but to admit that she still couldn’t trust Hanzo.

.

.

.

**IV – Day 7**

In the few days that followed the brothers’ compromise towards Meisa-sama and her family and also as part of their duty as members of Overwatch to stop Talon’s incipient operations in Japan, the Sparrow began to notice his brother changing once again. It seemed distant now, when looking in the rearview mirror of their bond, that night when he had told his older brother that the world was changing – now the world seemed destined to repeat a cyclical turn of events for his eyes to watch in a rather unmoved fashion. The world was still changing – but Hanzo seemed to be the only actor brave enough to face each subtle alteration with renewed intent. Hanzo was the only one changing – although, deep down, the Sparrow couldn’t be completely sure whether his brother’s motion was an advance or a relapse.

Much to his surprise, he found his older brother sitting all alone in what used to be Sojiro’s office. The place he had sworn he would never occupy, the very same room that, most times, had deprived them of their father while growing up. Constant as a shadow traveling across a wall, Sojiro’s expectations and teachings would not leave his older son’s side and so, existing between invisible parenthesis, breathing in through the impeccable form of rules and discipline, the father would always be there, tacit yet ever-present, even when his children could not see him with their own eyes.

When he moved closer to the desk, he noticed the old books. Resumed with brand new ink, gapping the distance between one era and the other – a man in his element, at last.

Checking every ledger entry and clumsily scrawling his own, Hanzo kept his eyes trained on the books before him.

Genji’s voice suffocated his mathematical thoughts with the precision of a misplaced comma, ruining what could have been the perfect equation.

Silver metal landed on the pages, artificial fingers sliding across the surface, sweeping off the ink – hurting perfection.

“I take it you have plans to fully take over, brother?”

The archer didn’t reply. With his brown eyes still struggling to find the logic in those numbers his brother had nearly erased, he simply let his voice communicate what seemed to be the most obvious of truths:

“Looks like it.”

“But why? And how?” Genji questioned, guarded yet resolute. “The Shimada name hadn’t made any money in a very long time now, Hanzo. I doubt we still have any reserves left in our banks, plus Overwatch cannot be funded so you can’t expect Morrison or Amari to pay for anything around here after the mission is over.”

The archer opened his mouth to explain himself but the Sparrow went on,

“The clan is no more, Hanzo. The life you once knew – it doesn’t exist anymore.” He paused, taking a long breath, “This place is just wood and stone, brother: a museum of everything that is no more.”

“I don’t want to move backward – only forward.” The older brother sentenced.

“And you expect to achieve that by staying here? Right in the middle of the monument of our defeat?”

Hanzo laughed, turning the page and letting the ink travel across the surface.

“I have my own reserves, I was a mercenary, remember?” Only then he looked up and found his younger brother – the unreadable expressions hidden behind that damn helmet of his were now an entire language, albeit one Hanzo could not understand. “I have adopted a very austere lifestyle throughout the years. Meisa-sama and her family are not here for the money either. Maybe I can work for Overwatch from here, make sure this place finds its redemption.”

The irony was delicious: Genji had been the reason why Hanzo had joined Overwatch – the Sparrow had only wanted to provide his brother with a place to call his own, a family, even a sense of discipline and duty – the same senses their own father had carved into his skin, the ones he could not live without. And Hanzo had tried his best to call the place his own; to fit in and even indulge himself in the luring calls of love and urgency. Overwatch was meant to keep him away from Hanamura – yet the organization had pushed him towards the same old destination – Shimada Castle.

Hanzo’s plans were as tangible as Amelie’s fears: his plans, indeed, exceeded the mission.

He wanted to stay. More than just that – he was determined to stay.

No matter how noble his brother’s intentions seemed to be, the feeling stayed the same inside the cyborg ninja. Fate had slapped the Sparrow hard across the face. He approached the door in silence, leaving the archer alone with his numbers.

“I chose not to tell her anything when you lied to her in front of me,” he whispered, hands resting at the sides of his body, “but she called again today. If you are planning to stay – if you won’t return to her, you should at least let her know.”

“She doesn’t need me, brother. Not anymore.” Hanzo said, with a scowl. His eyes went back to the paper as his brother disappeared behind the door.

He tried to resume his calculations, then, but it was pointless.

The tip of his pen had run totally dry. 

.

.

.

**V – Day 10**

She propped herself up with her elbows then took a good look around: the movie was over, and both Hana and Lucio were fast asleep, their bodies a simple mess, scattered clumsily all over the couch. The doctor and the cowboy, with their eyes still open wide, observed the scene with parental candor as the Frenchwoman stretched her arms over her head – the ending for the movie, a conclusion she had not seen, reminded her of her own predicament in a way. Legs touching her stomach, her flexed knees received the light weight of her chin as she watched the cowboy motioning closer to her, and extending one of his hands to her.

It was easy to see that a small portion of his brain still wanted to take those two in his arms and take them to their respective quarters, but as he tilted his head to the side, his eyes seemed determined to prove otherwise – the great outlaw still had a reputation to maintain, after all.

The sniper wrapped her fingers around his artificial digits and took a deep breath of complete relief once she sensed the warmth emanating from his hand. As artificial as metal itself, the sensation engulfed the sleepy woman in a renewed sense of companionship, and even if the feeling differed greatly from the one she would get most times around Hanzo, it was close enough to help her stand up and walk towards that man waiting for her. As she moved her body closer, there, in her peripheral vision, the image of the angel started to take form: his warmth was hers, the woman knew; the light in his eyes belonged to her.

As the three of them ventured their bodies in the darkest hours of the night, walking down each one of the corridors leading their tired bones back to their rooms, she felt grateful for them, for having them with her during such a confusing moment in her life. All the certainties that the archer had procured just for her seemed to be gone now, as if the relief he had provided her with had only been destined to be fleeting.

In a way, it seemed, he had taken it all with him – all, but _them_.

Those ten days she had spent without him, the longest period of time they had spent apart ever since joining Overwatch, had been a bridge for the woman to walk towards _them_ – the cowboy and his angel. And even if she knew that her days with them were nothing but a poorly constructed excuse for the woman not to feel so all alone, for the woman to find a connection between them and the archer, every hour spent with them reminded her of the true meaning of friendship.

Empathy began to take shape as her body went still. Their sorrow was her sorrow, in a way – the days she had spent without the archer were the days they had spent without the Sparrow and even if the bonds uniting them were simply not the same, their presence and company had awakened a part of her that had remained dormant for such a long time: the longing for others.

She extended her arms, trapping them both in an unexpected embrace. If she had to be completely honest with herself, the gesture seemed foreign even for her, yet her arms seemed to have a mind of their own.

“Whoa, there,” Jesse let out, genuinely taken aback by Amelie’s gesture, “I might have been the first one to notice something good in you… but this one here got pretty jealous of you back then if I recall correctly...” he rearranged his hat, using it as an excuse to leave Amelie’s arms, and looked at Mercy.

The doctor seemed flustered by his comment.

“I wasn’t jealous.” She stated matter-of-factly.

The sniper took a step back and admired their little disagreement with a smile. Still, her puzzled expression could not hide the fact that even if the scene was hilarious, she still had no clue about what they were talking about.

“When you saved me that day, at the abandoned hospital…” McCree tried to help her, “Don’t you remember, Amelie?”

The Frenchwoman shook her head.

“You were still Widowmaker back then, it was a few years prior to your recovery.” He went on.

Still nothing. If anything, confusion was only growing stronger.

“I was Widowmaker… and I _saved_ you?”

The cowboy shrugged, “Well, you were with your Talon friends, and we were… being tortured by you, the Mexican hacker and _you know who_ …” Mercy looked away the second she heard it – it was hard to believe that even after all those years Jesse would still refuse to talk about his former mentor, least of all put a name to the monster he had become. “Anyway, things went south, the whole building started to collapse and Sombra and you know who just vanished. But you didn’t.”

The memories were confusing but still, she could see some scattered scenes here and there, in the theater of her mind.

“You had a moment there – I guess your conditioning was beginning to break… but then you snapped out of it. For whatever reason, you didn’t kill me.” He said “Not only you didn’t kill me; you took me back to her place,” he held the doctor’s hand ever so gently.

“Well, you didn’t kill me either,” Amelie let out softly, as she remembered how Jesse had pointed the tip of her own gun at her own head. “It took me some time to go back to Talon after that day but when I did… it got rougher.”

“The conditioning?” Angela asked and the sniper nodded silently.

Jesse surrounded them both with his arms and they resumed their march along the corridor.

“That’s why I’m proud to say that I was the first one to see _and_ say that there was something worth savin’ inside of you.” He smiled, “Angie got so jealous, though… she even said she wouldn’t give you a Christmas card.”

They all laughed briefly as McCree’s joke erased the darker aspects of such an anecdote.

“Just how much do you remember of your days as Widowmaker?” Angela asked.

Amelie took a deep breath,

“At first, nothing at all. But as days went by, the images came back. Now I can say I remember most of it. But not as a sequence – it’s more like bits and pieces.” Her eyes drifted away, “It’s weird, it’s like watching someone else’s memories.”

“Memories are mostly linked to what we felt while we were creating them,” Angela explained, “But Widowmaker could not feel anything at all so it makes perfect sense if you feel like you’re watching someone else’s memories. When I took your case, I tried my best to play safe: repressing a part of your history was dangerous, Amelie, that’s why you’re able to remember your days as Widowmaker. How you remember them, it’s merely a matter of perspective, I’m afraid… but one thing’s for sure: we couldn’t risk forclusion.”

“It was confusing at first, I remember Hanzo got mad at me because he saw me dancing…” she grinned softly, “I felt so helpless back then – I didn’t know what was I supposed to be able to remember and there I was, dancing like nothing had happened. It was frustrating, really… How was I supposed to ask him to be patient and to understand when I myself didn’t know anything about what was happening inside my head?”

“Hanzo gets mad often,” The cowboy let out, “I wouldn’t dwell on it too much.” Their feet came to a halt in front of the sniper’s bedroom door. She smiled, once more, before kissing her friends goodnight.

“Maybe you’re right,” she pondered.

.

.

.

**VI – Day 11**

As the doctor paced around the conference room with her arms folded across her torso, 76 kept his eyes trained on the few papers scattered before him on the table. The meeting had been brief, another name had just been called: McCree’s – and now she was furious, every aspect of her body language was eager to express her increasing rage: from the reddened nostrils adding color to her face to the loud stomping of her heels; her entire existence was a scarlet colored flag for the soldier to remain quiet.

Even the rest of the agents had understood the subtle message and so they all had abandoned the room, leaving the two of them alone, sensing the storm approaching, as if anticipating the violent lighting about to strike.

Still, forty minutes had gone by and the thunder had yet to shake them. Words were simply beyond them now, and even if her silence was nothing but a conglomerate of things unsaid, given to explode any second now, his silence was an ode to patience and maturity.

A soft knocking on the door interrupted the discordance of such a reunion. After Jack’s permission to come inside had traveled the distance, Amelie entered the room as quietly as possible.

“Jesse’s done packing up, Angie,” she said, “I thought you’d like to say goodbye before he leaves.”

The doctor motioned her body towards the sniper but turned around before she could get to the door:

“Don’t think I can’t see what you’re doing.” She sentenced sternly, eyes as cold as ice.

76 looked up at her, his fingers tapping fervently against the papers before him.

“What am I doing?”

Her cheeks turned red in a matter of seconds and her hands started to shake. Still, she could not find the strength to voice her thoughts: Jack had changed, it was far-fetched to think that he was trying to keep her all for himself, sending Genji and Jesse away but even if that wasn’t his intention it was hard not to feel the threat of history attempting to repeat itself.

“We won’t be deploying you, Angela,” Morrison said, “We knew, since the beginning of this mission, that a healer was to be deployed but please understand that when we chose Zenyatta, we also considered what the monk could do for Genji – personally _and_ spiritually.” He stood up, the papers now resting against his chest, “I honestly can’t imagine what it must feel like to return to Hanamura with Hanzo, Angela…”

The doctor, still exhibiting signs of doubt all over her pale face, moved closer to the sniper. Even if his reasoning was entirely logical, she still couldn’t shake the bitter feeling stirring inside of her. Amelie’s soft hands landed on her shoulders, bringing her back to reality if only for a moment.

“I’m sure Genji will be glad to see Jesse,” The Frenchwoman whispered, “Now let’s go, dear. Don’t keep him waiting.”

The doctor nodded, “At least one of us will get to go to Hanamura, just like they wanted. You should keep your hopes up, Amelie: Hanzo said it himself, they would ask for us.”

“Hanzo didn’t say anything,” Morrison said, looking confused. “In fact, I’m the fourth member of the team, I’m leaving tonight.”

Amelie let go of Angela almost immediately.

“It can’t be,” the sniper mumbled, “He told us that…”

“Hanzo didn’t say anything.” Morrison cut her off before she could continue. “Genji did: he asked for both Angela and Jesse. But Hanzo did not say a word about the team during that meeting nor did he ask for anyone in particular.”

The storm was over for Angela but a canopy of dark clouds was now beginning to cover Amelie’s horizon with its deadly mist. It was official: he didn’t want her with him, that’s why he had never answered her messages, that’s why he had never picked up the phone.

The doctor patted her back gently, before leaving the room. Morrison looked down, becoming human for the first time in years – then he nodded once in her direction and left the room as well.

Alone, the Frenchwoman felt the sting of betrayal piercing through her stomach: she had been right all along, he was not coming back. Those kisses of his, so frantically desperate, were his farewell.

.

.

.

**VII – Day 14**

It was pointless for Genji to look for his brother all over Hanamura as if he didn’t really know where to find him – still he chose to fool himself as he visited each space and each room with the same peaceful celerity that his partners could find in the monk that had travelled right next to him on so many occasions.

The dojo was empty, the kitchen – deserted. The pond, lonely and nostalgic as ever. The pagoda, the great hall and even his room had yet to see the older Shimada as well. Facing defeat, the Sparrow lowered his head and decided to go to the only place he knew he would find his brother: Sojiro’s office. He moved casually yet determined, knowing too well what such a place could do to someone like Hanzo, and stood in the doorway for a while, observing his brother swim in a sea of equations and numbers with the prestige of a professional.

Arms loose at the sides of his body, Genji motioned towards his brother and stood before him; the old wooden desk, the only barrier separating him from Hanzo. It was always like that with Hanzo, he pondered, always.

“She called again, brother.” He began, his voice a mere, gentle sigh, “I’m running out of excuses.”

Nothing.

_One more time, with feeling._

“She once told me that she feels _closer_ to me that she feels to you, you know?”

_Catch._

“That’s a lie.” Eagle eyes found him staring right back at him. His lifeless voice had managed to summon a controlled hurricane, expressing his discontent, undressing the lie. “After everything she’s been through she only gravitates towards others trying to experience what she once called love, lust, even trust. Now the untrained eye might find her interactions entertaining, warm even – genuine. But trust me, she feels closer to no one.”

“Are we still talking about Amelie, Hanzo?” The Sparrow smiled underneath his helmet, “Because that’s the most accurate description of yourself I’ve ever heard.” He sensed his brother tensing up as silence engulfed them both. Genji walked around the desk and sat down on the corner, “I don’t want to fight, Hanzo. I just want to know what’s wrong. If I’m going to lie to her, at least I want to know why.”

“I can see how things really are, Genji.” Hanzo said, “I know she feels her story and your story have more in common than her past and my own. It makes sense: she was the victim of her story, just like you were. Even if she did kill her husband, she didn’t know what she was doing. Unlike her, I knew who I was ending.”

Allowing one of his hands to land firmly on his brother’s nearest shoulder, Genji leaned towards Hanzo and said: “That woman loves you, brother. You should not be toying with her heart like that.”

The older Shimada shook his head as a mocking grin took over his face, “Every time someone like you talks so freely about love, it makes my stomach churn in revulsion a little. You’re not a believer, Genji - you’re a heretic. What Amelie and I have…” he sighed, almost defeated by his own conclusions, “Calling it love would be such a sinister thing to do, and still, here you are, labeling feelings just like you did, all those years ago… Don’t you dare lecture me on the feeling, brother. I thought you’d be wiser than that.”

Shaking himself free of his brother’s hand, Hanzo stood up and turned his back on Genji. He stood by the window, solemnly stubborn as usual.

“You should be able to recognize the feeling, Hanzo,” The Sparrow spat out bitterly, “A man who’s never experienced such an emotion should be able to recognize it the minute it arrives – something so transcendental, so life-changing… I truly pity you, brother.”

He heard his older brother laugh quietly at himself for a brief moment. Then the sound subsided, little by little until the shadows of his silence began to extinguish the little light surrounding his image.

“Are you upset because her story and my story are so similar?” Genji enquired, “Is it because, in a way, she reminds you of me? Or is it because I invited her to have a few drinks with us? Maybe it’s because you saw her laughing and having a good time with someone other than yourself?” The green lights of his visor flickered, “Maybe you fear she does not need you as much as she did before… you see her beginning to slip through your fingers and you can’t stop her?”

Hanzo turned around, severity written all over his face.

“Do you feel threatened by us, brother? Jealous, maybe?” He took off his helmet, and stared right into those dark eyes eager to shred him to pieces, “I told you, Hanzo, I’m not that man anymore.”

The rigid lines upon Hanzo’s face began to fade as he approached his younger brother yet the darkness of his stare remained,

“You are not.” He said, moving closer, “You used to be a predator – now you settle for crumbs, like a starving pigeon. I told you: I can see things as they truly are, Genji.” Suffocated by the unwanted proximity, the Sparrow pushed him away and stood up, yet it didn’t stop Hanzo from chasing after him, determined to wound his younger brother where it hurt the most: “You love the doctor – but you know she comes with a cowboy. Now you may find him attractive, his mannerisms may be endearing to you; I won’t go so far as to discuss the bond that is friendship, to feel that you _belong_ with them but what you seek in him is not love nor is it lust – it goes way beyond necessity.” His arms, stretched out, trapped the Sparrow against the wall, “Mercy is the only one that gives you love – Jesse brings you back to a time when hatred and revenge were the only things you were able to feel. His love is your shield; it’s what enables you to maintain a connection with the darkest part of yourself. You move in between those colors, brother: between black and white, just like you did before, just like you did when we were younger: back when you hated the clan and still you stayed because daddy would pay for your every wish and vice, allowing you to have a licentious life,”

 _“And how did it all end?_ ” The Sparrow roared, shaking himself free from his brother again, advancing against him, eyes wide and wounded with torment, “Say it, Hanzo! Say it! _How did it all end for you, Genji_?” He stood motionless, breathless, blinded by his own fury, “All those memories you wish to protect, the life you think you can get back if you stay here… no matter the intention, no matter how noble or good: this place, the monument of our family… we never bled blue, Hanzo – we were criminals, we were nothing but a bunch of organized criminals toying around with words such as honor and duty and fucking with their true meaning.”

He took a step back, allowing his back to touch the nearest wall for support. Yet Hanzo only smiled at him, darkly, viciously.

“Tell me, Genji,” he said, as he walked towards his brother, “in the name of peace, how many people did you kill last week?”

When Genji looked up at him he realized why he had tried his best to stay away from his father’s office. If his hair had been longer, Hanzo would have looked exactly like Sojiro but instead of bringing to life the sweeter aspects of that man he only seemed interested in recreating the worst aspects of the former leader.

“You haven’t changed at all, the tell-tale signs of your ambition still give you away.” The sparrow whispered, brokenhearted. Still, his body did not succumb to the weakness in his voice – he moved forwards, finally, his fingers like claws eager to break through his brother’s shoulders.

“Neither have you,” Hanzo whispered back, as he stumbled and nearly crumbled to the ground. The pain, increasing significantly, still worked as the spark to trigger the fighter in him. “But it’s not ambition, Genji. It’s a hunger, an unquenchable thirst… something you couldn’t possibly know of.” He got to his feet and leaned his back on the desk for support. “You thought I’d be miserable forever, didn’t you? Your help, your trust in me… I appreciate all that, brother, I do. But I’m not too blind to see that your discord increased the closer I got to Amelie.” He took a deep, long breath before saying: “I don’t think you’re jealous, Genji – I just think you never thought there would come a day when someone would be able to see something good in me. Your forgiveness is feeble, brother, your forgiveness requires torment – and I’m tormented enough on my own as it is, I can’t deal with your shades and shadows, Genji.”

The Sparrow walked towards the door and stood by the threshold. He couldn’t afford to face that man now. He simply couldn’t – his stubbornness and his brutal sense of honesty were deadlier than his arrows.

“You don’t deserve her.” He said as his brother sat back down on Sojiro’s chair.

“Go sleep with her, then,” Hanzo answered, in all simplicity, as his eyes went back to the maze of numbers still resting before him.

_One more time, with feeling._

“The girl from the ramen shop… she really liked you.”

_Catch._

“Still, a few sweet words, that toothy smile of yours, and she ended up in bed with you. Are you gonna call that _love_ too, brother?”

The screams coming from the front gate helped dissipate the hurricane about to destroy them both. They ran across the gardens, their legs feeling the weight of their merciless words trying to pin their feet down to the ground. Satya and Jesse had their arms around Meisa-sama, Morrison and Zenyatta were looking after the old maid’s daughters and grandchildren.

The rivers of blood pooling around their soles guided the brothers.

Decapitated and discarded at the gates of Hanamura, Meisa’s sons had returned home.

.

.

.

**VIII – Day 16**

“Care for a beer?” Her black strands preceded her as she moved her neck graciously, sticking it out just enough to catch a glimpse of the good doctor, still secluded inside her office.

“Always.”

She was nervous. They both were. Many days had gone by since they had left them all alone and, each one of them in their own way had begun expressing that instability. While Amelie had chosen to double her hours in the firing range, Angela had opted for the immaculate privacy of her office, blaming reports and research projects every time an agent would ask about her absence.

They were on their own, left to their own devices, coexisting as representatives of two different sides for the same story – a story of blood, and desperation. Amelie handed the doctor one of the bottles she was carrying and watched as Angela drank it down in a mere matter of seconds, then she dragged the chair at the other end of the doctor’s desk and took a seat, stretching her legs as far as she could.

“Speak up,” The ballerina ordered but the doctor remained quiet, her lips pressed tightly.

She watched as the Swiss woman fidgeted in her chair, far from her reach but intrinsically near. The empty bottle between her hands spinning relentlessly on the desk. It was unlike her, Amelie thought, to look so frustrated, so clouded by emotions.

“I’m afraid that, if I do say what’s on my mind, it might offend you,” Angela said, finally, seeking eye contact for the first time.

Amelie nodded – she understood. In fact, she understood it all too well: the brothers were no longer alone in Hanamura yet the feeling of danger was unshakable, persistent.

“I fear Hanzo might see this trip, this mission, as an opportunity to finish what he started all those years ago.” The doctor confessed. “I know I have no reason to feel this way, I shouldn’t allow such thoughts to plague my mind so easily – Hanzo is on his way to redemption, he’s opening up to others, accepting their help… still, I can’t help it.”

Amelie tilted her head to the side but then closed her eyes minutely, and sighed. She couldn’t blame Angela for feeling that way, for fearing the worst: she had done the impossible to save Genji – there was no need for words; they both knew she wouldn’t be able to save him a second time.

“I should not allow myself to feel this way,” The doctor went on, “everything you’ve been doing for Hanzo… when I allow myself to embrace this fear not only I become his judge and his jury, but I’m also underestimating you, and all your efforts… and for that I apologize, Amelie.”

The sniper let her bottle rest on the desk before her – if she was demanding honesty, it was her time to do the same.

“Don’t apologize.” She said, “I fear Genji.” Eyes wide open met her at the other end of the desk, still their burning questions subsided as the Frenchwoman explained herself, “I can’t decipher him – the feeling startles me every time we talk, every time we share a moment: he is this sweet boy that wants nothing but to reconcile with his brother but then he becomes this cryptic man, anchored to his own misfortune, driven by his wounds.” She paused, breaking eye contact, “I don’t think he’s forgiven Hanzo.”

 The doctor stretched one of her hands and reached out for Amelie:

“Genji gave him a home, purpose… a new family, friends. He might be conflicted, but I’m sure he forgave Hanzo a long time ago, way before this, way before us. We just worry about them, Amelie, all the time – that seems to be our nature.” She smiled fondly at the sniper but the woman’s slender shape only seemed to diminish under Angela’s gaze.

“I’m not saying that he’s faking it – but maybe what he thought, what he felt back then, before bringing Hanzo over – when it was all an idea, an abstraction, wishful thinking, you name it… differed from what he thought and what he felt when they started to coexist in the same environment.” She folded her arms over her chest, taking a deep breath, embracing herself for the worst, “Would you heal Hanzo, fix him, put him back together the way you did for Genji?”

The pause stretched itself in time until silence became unbearable. Then the doctor grinned tenderly, retrieving her hand.

“Now that question offends me.”

“I apologize.”

Angela shook her head, biting her lower lip with renewed intensity.

“Stop apologizing. Stop being afraid of hurting others – you’re not _her_ anymore.”

“I know. But I’m not the one before her either.” She rubbed her hands on her thighs, releasing tension. “I am sloppy, sometimes careless… but I’m not even a hybrid, I’m not even a mixture of those women, I’m something else entirely, something I can’t quite figure out. What happened with Jack is the best example – I never thought I could hurt all of you with just a name. It never crossed my mind that my own frustration could break you all at once – and I’m part of a team now.”

Angela shook her head,

“You did what you had to do.” Then she leaned forward, her chest resting against the desk, “It helped me open my eyes. Now I know the Jack I loved is truly dead.”

“Is it hard…” Amelie questioned, leaning forward as well, allowing her forehead to touch the doctor’s, “loving two men?”

The doctor closed her eyes and laughed.

“No. It’s actually very simple. But if I had to be honest, it requires no effort from me – _they_ make it simple.” Caressing her friend’s cheek before moving backward and leaning her back on the chair, the doctor allowed her smile to remain there, lighting up her features for a while longer. “I know both of them feel threatened by Jack’s _return_ – my only job, then, is to make them feel I wouldn’t trade them for the world.” She snatched Amelie’s beer from her hand before the sniper could finish it, “It’s really hard for me to even try to find the man I once loved in this old vigilante… when Jesse left Blackwatch I could really see Jack for the man that he was: older, wiser, stronger – the pillar I needed back then.” the beer was history now, “But then he got himself killed and I was all alone again. That’s always been a constant for the men of my life: they leave only to return… more broken than before, less alive than before… They make me work.” She grinned, “I think they like keeping me busy.”

Amelie smiled as well, finding in those men an echo reverberating across her own reality.

“Thank you for saving Jesse that day. I never got to thank you.” The doctor said. “You were still Widowmaker back then, did you have any idea that you were _saving_ Jesse?”

“Yes,” the sniper whispered, her eyes lost in thought, “but I didn’t do it for Jesse. I did it for Gabriel.”

That name still represented the hero and the villain. The friend and the foe. That name could still hold the power to shake them all from within, exposing their weaknesses one by one, undressing their fears and regrets.

“Gabriel, or Reaper, actually, had talked about Jesse many, many times. How he had felt betrayed by Jesse, backstabbed by him… it was easy to realize, even for a woman who could not feel anything at all, that something was broken inside that broken man: I could not feel a single thing yet he seemed capable of feeling everything.” She blinked twice, perhaps trying her best to capture her fragmented memories like photographs inside her eyes, “He had him that day, still he couldn’t kill him. He tortured him, punished him in his own way – but soon I noticed he had chosen to reopen an old wound: Jesse’s artificial arm, when he tore it away and hurt his arm… it was fascinating to me, even poetic, metaphorical – it must have been so painful for Jesse but, truth is, Gabriel could have hurt him way more. And he didn’t. Instead of creating new wounds he simply focused on reopening an old one… when I saw Jesse unconscious and battered on the ground I felt a very weird sort of nostalgia, it was so confusing… I remembered them all, back when I still was Amelie, but even then and even so I saved Jesse because deep down I understood that Gabriel was not ready to lose him.”

Angela struggled her way through the story – then she looked down, grateful to know it was all in the past.

“When Jesse told me what had happened we thought you had felt something.”

“I did, but I didn’t fully understand the emotion. In the end, I think I did the only thing I knew how to do: I transformed the uncomfortable feeling into a mental abstraction, a deduction…”

“Why did you ask me if it was easy to love two different men, Amelie?” The doctor asked, trying her best to change the subject yet still gravitating towards a sense of honesty that clearly belonged to them, “I don’t really see Hanzo as a sharer.”

Amelie laughed at the idea.

“It’s more of a… compatibility issue.” The sniper fought back the tears, drinking in her own ocean of bottled-up emotions, “I’m not sure if the dead can coexist with the living.” She didn’t care about Hanzo’s betrayal nor did she care about the fact that she hadn’t seen him in such a long time. His image, still clear yet enigmatic inside her head helped her pull through, “Gerard is dead, Hanzo is alive – still, I feel for them both… it doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does.” Angela helped her. “For the longest time, I loved the three of them: the ninja, the cowboy and the dead soldier. The dead don’t leave; they stay with us, Amelie. That’s why this Jack hurts me so much: this Jack has nothing to do with the man I treasured inside my fondest memories.”

The sniper stood up, walked around the desk, and placed her arms around the doctor’s shoulders.

“I don’t think he’s coming back.” She whispered, embracing Angela’s pain as her own.

The doctor shifted her body and looked into her friend’s eyes: “Then don’t wait.” she said, “For better or worse, go get your ending or your beginning… but don’t stand motionless in the middle.”

She left the doctor’s office with a clear destination in mind. The watchpoint at night engulfed her shape in its obsidian blanket as she walked down the corridors.

Winston was already asleep by the time she stood in front of the computer.

“Athena,” she whispered, “How do I get to Hanamura?”

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s notes: The story involving Reaper/Gabriel that is mentioned in this chapter is another fic of mine, “Business.” I tried my best to add the required exposition for you guys to understand what happened in that story but if any of you feels like it’s not clear enough, please drop me a line and let me know.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos and/or reviewing!


	5. Jack (Farewell Kiss)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was his scars.

Variations on a Theme

Act V

**Jack (Farewell Kiss)**

* * *

 

 _“_ _Remembering our past, carrying it around with us always, may be the necessary requirement for maintaining, as they say, the wholeness of the self. To ensure that the self doesn’t shrink, to see that it holds on to its volume, memories have to be watered like potted flowers, and the watering calls for regular contact with the witnesses of the past, that is to say, with friends. They are our mirror; our memory; we ask nothing of them but that they polish the mirror from time to time so we can look at ourselves in it.”_

Milan Kundera ― Identity

* * *

.

.

.

**I – Business or Pleasure**

Her black trench coat helped her blend in as the last hours of the day washed over her slender figure. The obsidian, nighty shadows became, once more, her favorite element. Waltzing around a variety of colorful rooftops and whimsical branches, the Frenchwoman approached the compound with a clear mind and an unclouded sight – the image was breathtaking, so beautiful and majestic that, she wondered, even for a brief moment, if it was real or a mere figment of her convoluted imagination.

The question lingered in the back of her mind, as her legs moved gracefully forwards like a gazelle determined to reach its prey: how could someone ever want to leave such a place? The eerie beauty in front of her, like an unreachable symbol in the distance, was beginning to bleed the echoes of a tragedy she could not outrun no matter how fast she moved. What he must have suffered, what he must have endured… That wasn’t enough, though, to forgive the archer so easily – yet she absorbed the view just as if that place before her had the peculiar quality of being able to stop time, or perhaps act like a magnet, attracting those who unmistakably belong in there and luring them in with its ancestral beauty and its mythical tales. Perhaps that’s what the archer had felt, she reckoned, maybe he had heard the siren song calling out for him, spelling out his name for the man to remember who he really was; or who was he supposed to be. Whether he could address such identities as his own, or whether he even knew, at all, about their so-called existence was something the woman could not afford to ask herself but still she knew, she was certain: nothing at all seemed to suffice as convincing evidence for her to assume that he had, at least, a clue.

The conniving silhouettes of countless leaves and branches were dancing in the tepid winds and the woman took it as a sign to dust off the ballerina that she was no more. If it was all about identity, why not just giving it a shot to see if yesterday’s sights were still hers. Using her grappling hook to her help rise up in the night, Amelie soared above the canopy of trees and gates and landed gracefully on the wooden edge of the compound, right above the main gate. One leg followed the other, arms stretched out to maintain such fragile balance; the dancer propelled her figure across the ancient structure until modernity forced her to stop.

Set all across the perimeter, countless surveillance cameras and sentry turrets were eager to detect her presence.

The woman shook her head in silent disapproval: something as banal as technology would not ruin the surprise for her, nor will it give the archer a chance to think and come up with an excuse to try to justify his behavior.

Carefully studying her chances, the woman understood that destroying the turrets was not an option but still she needed to be able to get down to the ground without receiving any damage from them. With a heavy sigh the Frenchwoman took off her trench coat and held it in her hand for a few moments: it was expensive, incredibly fancy and flattering to her form but still, it had to be sacrificed in the name of the greater good.

Painstakingly slow, her hand let go of the leather and the garment fell down, graciously, until it landed, covering three sentry turrets. Then the woman descended to the ground and moved quickly towards the garden, concealing her body behind one of the large rocks adorning the place. Safe from harm, she looked over her shoulder only to find that her beloved coat was history now, disintegrated in a mere matter of seconds by the turret’s powerful beams.

Resuming her march through Hanamura, Amelie soon found herself surrounded by sakura trees in blossom. The scent, so captivating and sweet, made her forget about the coat, the long and vacant hours she had spent on a plane and Hanzo’s deception but the further she went, the easier it became for her to realize that the whole compound was more than simply beautiful: it was large and spacious – a significant distance stretched itself from structure to structure: finding Hanzo was going to be more difficult than she had anticipated.

When a hand landed gently on one of her shoulders, the woman closed her eyes and took a deep breath – perhaps he had seen her, somehow, and he had come to meet her, discreet as usual and romancing privacy like only he knew how. But when she turned around and gazed up at the man towering over her shape her hopes vanished.

Morrison.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Gibraltar, Agent Lacroix?” he asked – his tone, indecipherably casual.

The Frenchwoman took a step back instinctually, then folded her arms across her chest and tilted her head to the side in a rather despondent fashion.

“Yes.” Lying was pointless. “I know I should have… _called_?”

His smile interrupted her before she could go on. Unexpectedly pleasant to the senses, his gesture lighted up his aged visage for a few moments.

“It’s good to have you here,” he said, surprising her. “Now walk with me.”

For reasons she had yet to understand, the man was not angry at her nor was he trying to force her back to the watchpoint. Shaking herself out of the initial trance, the woman embraced her fears like monsters threatening to ruin everything she was trying to build.

“What’s going on, Jack? Are they alright?” trepidation invaded her, slowly, gradually.

The man signaled her to remain quiet but kept on walking towards a dark building past the elevated bridge engulfed in pink and white hues; slight souvenirs of spring the flowers guided her in her path. She moved cautiously by his side, observing as the man reached inside his infamous 76 jacket only to produce a small, rusty key.

“Through here.” He said as he beckoned her to crouch her way through the old looking door standing before them.

Once they were both inside, Morrison closed the door and locked it from the inside. Then he turned on the lights to reveal a simple, small room – no windows, no decoration. A large table was placed right in the middle and, resting on the surface, laid two decapitated bodies wrapped up in plain white sheets. The woman walked around the table with a puzzled expression on her face – still, Morrison observed her as she took in the deplorable sight, with his arms across his chest and his lips pressed in a tight line.

“I need an opinion.” He said, “And you’re a former Talon agent.” There was not a single trace of malice in his voice – only curiosity.

“Why are you not angry at me?” Amelie asked, dismissing his previous comment even if he had meant her no harm. The man shrugged, in all simplicity. “What are you even doing up so late? This is way past your bedtime, old man.” They were not friends, in fact, they had never been friends, not even when Gerard was around – but something about him was beginning to exist under a new light and the colors in his kaleidoscope seemed eerily endearing for her.

“I was going for a beer, yesterday I spotted a nice bar just a couple of blocks away from here.” He said. “Too much sake in this place…”

He was alone. Gibraltar or Hanamura was exactly the same thing for him – no one wanted him around. No one cared. No one really listened. Or mattered. Or counted.

Careful not to touch the bodies, Amelie sat at the edge of the table, her feet unable to touch the ground.

“What can I do for you?”

Leaning his back against the door, Morrison told her about Meisa and her family, their struggles throughout the years, and the deadly reunion with her missing sons. Impartial and concise, his mouth retraced every step of the way as his memory went on, bonding the different parts of the same story to recreate one coherent tale. By the time he was finished; the woman tilted her head to the side and looked him in the eye: there was no need to state the obvious; they were both on the same page.

“Did you tell the others, about this suspicion of yours?”

He shook his head.

“They are committed – _compromised_.” He said.

“They are contaminated by the story – and its actors.” Amelie interrupted him, saying the words he did not want to say.

The man walked towards her and placed both his hands on the table: “Hanzo and Genji are grateful, these people made sure they would have a home to return to in case they ever felt the need to come back. The monk is trying his best to provide support to Meisa and her family, Satya was with Meisa when the bodies were found… it’s not like she’s not used to this kind of situation, but she’s deeply moved by this family.”

Hating herself for allowing the former Talon operative to take over so easily, but knowing full well that Morrison had a point to prove and that he needed her help, the Frenchwoman took a long breath and stood up, resolute.

“Talon doesn’t work that way.” She sentenced. “They don’t _warn_ people. They just take over, and destroy everything that’s standing in their way.”

“What about intelligence work?” He soon inquired, preoccupied, “Is it possible that they could send someone to take a look at things and make sure everything will go according to plan before they make a move?”

She tried hard to hold back the laughter but, in the end, gave up and allowed the cruel sound to ricochet through the room.

“Jack, if Talon is recruiting former Shimada clan members and they want Hanamura as their base of operations, they will have it.” She began, “So yes, let’s assume for a moment here that they actually acted that way: that they sent some men and they found that an old lady and her family are the only obstacles standing in their way. Do I really need to tell you what any Talon agent would do in such a situation?”

He looked down, confirming his every suspicion. Meisa’s story was flawed. Sloppy. Unconvincing.

“What about the dead sons?” He finally asked, moving his body away from the table. “I’ve been having a hard time trying to make these two fit into the narrative.”

“I can offer you alternatives, Jack, a couple scenarios come to mind.” She offered, shifting position, trying her best to maintain eye contact at all times. “The outcome is always the same, I can guarantee.”

He sat down right next to her.

“Humor me.”

“Meisa knows these men, in fact, she knew them all back when they were still clan members. Maybe she has evidence against them and the sons were just… vendetta?”

Morrison shook his head – it was possible, but it just didn’t seem plausible to him.

“Even if she knows something that could be potentially incriminating for them, how hard is it, really? To kill an old lady?” He was right, and she knew it. “Maybe Hanzo called home before his trip, to let her know they were on their way?”

“Not that I know of.” She retorted quickly. “I was with him all the time, if he called someone, I should have known. Perhaps he called from the plane? But you said that the woman was shaken by their return, she wasn’t expecting them.”

“And she said they took her sons prior to the Shimada brothers’ arrival.” He exhaled loudly, killing his own hypothesis. “Hanzo and Genji got on a plane on the same night we told them about Talon operating here.”

“Something went wrong.” She affirmed, voice low, almost whispering now. “This is the result.” Her index finger pointed at the bodies, the enigma still lay before them, wrapped up in immaculate white. For a moment she went still, eyes fixed on the table as if trying to uncover the truth behind the lie – then she moved forward like a vicious animal and began to peel off the sheets with a delicacy that had nothing to do with the feral instincts driving her now.

“Their heads are missing,” she whispered, eyes now anchored to Morrison’s stern expression.

He nodded: “They were decapitated, I told you.”

“Then how do we even know it’s them?” There it was, finally voiced out and nearly corporeal, the question he had been asking himself ever since they had found the bodies, lifeless and discarded at the gates of Hanamura.

“Jack, we need to run DNA tests to confirm their identity.” She could feel that, for the very first time, they were finally able to see eye to eye. It was unprecedented – but not at all uncomfortable.

“We can’t.” He said, head hanging low, “an autopsy, DNA… Overwatch can’t make such requests, Amelie, and you know it. We can’t even go to the police to have them examine the bodies.” He took a long; deep breath before continuing, “Plus, if this woman _is_ innocent, if these two corpses really _are_ her sons…”

“Then informing the authorities is completely out of the question,” she helped him, “she would be declaring war to Talon all on her own. Still, there must be something we can do.” She crossed her arms over her chest as her legs motioned towards the aged vigilante, “Perhaps if Angela was here…”

He grinned at her suggestion, yet the gesture faded quickly from his face.

“She wouldn’t be able to do much either; the Shimadas don’t have a forensics lab in here.”

Now it was her turn to smile, even if the timid grin curling up her lips was only meant to disguise her obvious defeat.

“Still, we could get some DNA samples – and send them to Angela.” She suggested, “I know they were decapitated, but what about their fingernails?”

The same smile that had faded from his face only minutes ago reappeared all of a sudden. Hadn’t she known that man any better, she would have been fooled into thinking her words had somehow reawakened his lethargic, eclipsed vigor.

“What?” She asked, mildly annoyed by his apparent good humor. “What is it? Was it something I said?”

“No,” Jack shook his head, the smile still igniting the sparks in his eyes, “Gerard was just like that. Always so eager to investigate… I’ve always been more of an action man; maybe that’s why we made such a good team.” He moved closer to her, admiring her blushing cheeks as a sign of an innocence that could still be saved, “Can I be selfish with you, just one last time?”

His question seemed odd at the beginning yet she soon found herself nodding her head.

“I know this is not why you came here, but since you have yet to be seen by the others, could you deliver the samples to Angela in person?” her mouth was agape yet words had yet to reach the outside. “I’d like to keep this between us, and Angela, of course, until we have a confirmation… I can’t afford to be _that man_ now.”

“The one suspecting an old lady who just lost her sons?”

Morrison lowered his head and Amelie patted his shoulder gently.

“I can’t go back to Gibraltar, Jack. They won’t let me get back here, and you know I’m determined to return.”

“I know.” A sigh escaped his lips, then his eyes found hers again, “I won’t tell him you were here.” He signaled her to stay and wait for him, then he left the room without telling her where he was going. Determined to help, she grabbed her phone and called the good doctor to let her know about Jack’s plan. The Swiss woman hesitated at first but eventually agreed to help; knowing too well that both her men could be sleeping with the enemy. By the time Morrison reentered the room it was all set – but when Amelie put her hand over the speaker and asked him if he wanted to talk to Angela he simply dismissed her suggestion by shaking his head.

Once her phone was safe again, inside her back pocket, Morrison showed the woman the two items he had acquired during his brief expedition to the kitchen: a short knife, and a Ziploc freezer bag. When he approached the bodies, the Frenchwoman turned around and crossed her arms over her chest – she had killed many people before, sometimes brutally, but this kind of procedure could still make her throw up in utter repulsion.

“I’ll be leaving again, as soon as you give me the samples,” she began, trying her best not to pay attention to the little sounds coming from the table at her back, “Angela and I agreed on meeting halfway, tomorrow afternoon. I’ll hand her the samples, and then she’ll get back to Gibraltar.”

“She could use the little break,” he mumbled, too busy now to engage in proper conversation.

“Yes…” The concentration in his voice was tempting enough for the woman to take a quick look over her shoulder – only to realize immediately that it had been a terrible idea for her to do so. Clutching her own stomach, she felt her knees go weak as her forearms got covered in goosebumps – “You should ask her to join the team, Jack,” she said, trying her best to distract her mind from the weakening sensations taking over her body. “After we got the results, you should at least take it into consideration.”

“We got Zenyatta.”

Walking blindly towards him, with her back still turned to the table, she placed her hands on his shoulders the second he felt palpable enough in her touch. Then she turned around, leaning on him for support. She was paler than usual, he noticed.

“It’s not the same.” She retorted, covering her mouth. “I know the monk can heal, but he’s not a doctor – and you can’t afford to underestimate the enemy, Jack. You don’t know _who_ your enemy really is, or what is exactly going on.” she stopped, abruptly, and moved away from the table as quickly as she could. No matter how hard she had tried not to look, her eyes had seen more than enough.

“The team we left back in Gibraltar still needs Angela,” Morrison said softly as he abandoned his task and held her hair just in time. Now it was his turn to look the other way, knowing too well that he would be the one in charge of cleaning up the mess – the bloody one on the table, and the other one, the more disgusting one, on the ground.

“They’ve got Ana – and Lucio,” Amelie said, embarrassed but still quite resolute. She got up slowly, as he still held her in his arms, and leaned her back against the door for support. Once he saw she was able to stand on her own, he went back to the table to finish his job – then he put the samples in the bag and handed it to her. Her hand was shaky, yet her eyes were determined not to leave his. “We just let her in, we told her everything and she’s willing to cooperate and help us. And then what, Jack?”

He covered the bodies once again, wrapping them up in immaculate white as if the soft material could suffice to shelter the truth from the lies. Yet he didn’t look at her, nor did he say anything to the woman still standing by the door.

“Genji and Jesse are here, Jack. And so are you. She needs to be here as well.”

“What she and I had…” he said, eyes vacant, gazing around the room without really looking at anything at all, “it’s long gone and forgotten.”

“Fair enough.” The sniper whispered, extending one of her hands for the vigilante to take it, “but she already lost you once. Now she could lose the three of you, all at once.”

He took her hand in his and squeezed her fingers gently. His lips, tight and unfeeling, still refused to let out an answer. A small smile appeared on her face just as the woman unglued her back from the door and made room for the man to move – once outside, Satya’s silhouette, moving towards the main gate, made them turn around and hide behind the sakura trees. Silently waiting for the architect to go back inside the compound, both the sniper and the former Strike-Commander observed as she checked the perimeter of turrets she had set during her first day in Hanamura. She inspected each sentry turret carefully, adding new ones or replacing some of them, generating new clusters or increasing the distance between them. Amelie watched in awe as the woman worked in the night; in all the time they had spent together in Gibraltar she had never been able to see Symmetra in action, shaping hard light like that.

She made it look so simple. Magical, even.

“Everyone in Overwatch has something amazing to offer,” Jack whispered, delighted to see Amelie’s child-like fascination taking over her, lighting up her face with a genuine smile. “And you do, too.”

A man on his own, that’s what he really was, she realized.

“Thank you, Jack.”

“You can call me 76.” He said, even when his real identity was no longer a secret. “In fact, you’re the only one who still calls me Jack.”

Satya was gone.

“It’s a little pointless, don’t you think?” The sniper asked as they both resumed their march.

“It’s a choice.” He corrected her, “Maybe it’s easier for me to just be 76. Or maybe they don’t need Jack anymore.”

The statue, the symbol of their past… everything it represented, the spirit, the leader. Gone and covered in dust, Jack Morrison only lived in the minds of those who could still remember the man, and not just the soldier.

“Besides, I’m not the only one hiding behind an identity that’s not entirely mine…” His hands landed on the woman’s shoulders as her back kissed the main gate. “Godspeed, Agent Guillard. See you in twenty-four hours.”

.

.

.

**II – The Ties That Bind**

“Two of my turrets registered activity last night.”

The woman walked around the table as the rest of the team watched her silently. Many charts and numerical projections were showing in her hands, as she moved graciously among them, concerned, but determined.

“There’s nothing on the cameras,” Morrison said, knowing too well that Amelie had been the so-called registered _activity_ yet choosing discretion. “I checked twice this morning.”

A somnolent cowboy let his hat rest on the table as his frown rejected once more the smoky cup of green tea that had been placed right in front of him. The evident lack of caffeine was taking its toll on him, his good moods were visibly receding, specifically during the mornings. “Maybe it was a bird that flew too close to the turrets, or maybe it was a cat, looking for some food.” He said. “A very black cat, blending in with the night so the cameras wouldn’t catch it.”

The architect arched her eyebrows in disbelief, her mouth agape.

“I’m just sayin’ – your turrets are handy and useful, but it’s not that hard to work your way around ‘em,” Jesse affirmed, his hands in the air in a defensive stance. “Especially if you’re a cat or a bird.”

“What about the hacker?” Genji asked. “I know her enhancements allow her to remain completely invisible for a short period of time.”

Symmetra took a seat right next to the quiet monk. She looked down at her own hands: Sombra was dangerous, everybody knew that for a fact. Alarming visages waltzed around the table as they accepted the fact that Sombra was, without a doubt, the only one that was capable of fooling the cameras while still registering activity all across the perimeter of sentry turrets. No longer able to find reasons to joke around, the cowboy stared intently at 76,

“Do you think it’s possible?”

The old man concealed the truth behind a mask of utter surprise – even if he knew that Amelie had been the real reason why the turrets had registered activity the night before, this whole Sombra plot could be enough to make them all work as a team. Perhaps this charade of fake danger would suffice – it would make them keep their guards up, work together, and never underestimate the enemy.

“It’s certainly possible.” He finally said, his voice lifeless yet demanding their attention.

Sensing a brand new threat, one they could not even see with their own eyes, the group started to embrace the notion of a more conceptual sort of enemy – yet only one face remained stoic during the storm, as if unable to address the ethereal danger as a real, constituted form of danger.

“They would not dare.” The archer spat disdainfully, “It might sound ridiculous, but I agree with McCree: perhaps it was a cat or a bird. Talon would never dare to cross these gates. Not if we’re here.”

Faces changed, once more, but still the Sparrow refused to break eye contact.

“Don’t be such a fool, Hanzo. It simply does not suit you.”

The coldness in his voice confirmed what they all thought: something had changed between the brothers in the little time they had spent together in Hanamura. Something was broken between them; again, as if shards of the same bond were sporting brand new cracks now, hurting an old wound that was never going to heal.

“You think Talon would show respect?” The Sparrow went on, “Do you think they’d care?”

The cowboy let his artificial hand land on Genji’s nearest shoulder but the conflicted ninja removed it the second he felt the unwanted contact pulsing right through him – now it was not the time for sentimentalism, nor was it the time for holding back.

“Perhaps they should, brother. Perhaps you’re right: they should show us some respect. We were criminals as well, after all. They should be able to see this place for what it really is: a nest of snakes that drowned in their own poison.”

Hanzo stared at the monk as if expecting the omnic to do something.

Nothing.

“Or perhaps that’s why they’re so interested in claiming the place as their own, maybe they feel like they belong in here, with us – tell me, Hanzo, how many times did they offer you to join their ranks? See brother, maybe it’s not so crazy to think that Talon really belongs in this place. What it represents, what they represent… I really see no difference between them.”

Satya stood up and left the room and McCree followed her close behind. They knew what was going to happen, but they didn’t want to stay and watch.

“What this place represents…” Hanzo began, his voice weak, more than soft.

“What this place represents to _you_.” Genji retorted. “This sacred temple of sins you hold so dear… what a crooked sense of faith you have, brother, always so eager to protect the wrong things.”

“Genji, enough.” The archer let out through clenched teeth, his fists slamming furiously against the table. There was only so much he could take.

“How can you be so blind?” The ninja stood up, kicking his chair. “Do you think this is the first time Talon has walked right through our door? The Talon connection goes way back, brother. Did you ever stopped and asked yourself why the elders saw me as a liability? Father never saw me that way, you know?”

Unable to say anything, the archer listened helplessly to the words he had avoided for so long.

“The elders were aligned with Talon, Hanzo. My only mistake was to see it with my own eyes. They had fooled our father, and they had even fooled you… I just happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. And you just happened to be an indoctrinated idiot.” The monk was casting a yellowish glow, engulfing the brothers in a comforting warmth that was not enough to mitigate the torturing images of the past.

Hanzo stood up and left the room without saying a single word.

Yet silence had never said so much.

.

.

.

**III – Islands**

Twenty-four hours later, Amelie stood in front of the main gate, right at the beginning of the compound, and stayed there for a while, with a faint street lamp illuminating her back and the immensity taking place all around her making her look smaller than ever.

She was nervous, terrified by the black-haired uncertainty waiting at the other side – so she just stood there, in the quiet night surrounding her, as dark clouds rolled by, menacing as ever.

The man was wearing a pair of jeans, and a black shirt. He was watching her, across the street, with a six-pack in his hands. When he crossed the street she turned around, instinctively, noticing someone approaching, and then she saw him: hidden behind those casual clothes, he really had aged.

“So you’re back,” he said, “Angela has the samples, I take it?”

The woman nodded, still taken aback by his cruel reality.

“She will contact me as soon as she has the results,” she finally managed to say. “Did you think about what I told you?”

He shook his head and smiled politely, “You’re right – we should bring her over. When she contacts you, you can tell her.”

“Wouldn’t you like to tell her yourself?” the sniper asked, crossing her arms over her chest but he simply looked down, and saved his answer for himself.

He motioned his body towards the entrance and pushed the door open for the two of them to walk right through it – yet instead of the peaceful lack of sounds that would always encompass the place during the low hours of the night, they were welcomed by the distant yelling of the two dragon brothers, still at war with each other.

They retraced their steps and left the place with the same discretion that had adorned their way inside the compound – little was there to be done by them, they both knew. The battle was meant to continue.

“We should wait here for a while,” Morrison said as he guided her through the narrow street surrounding the ramen restaurant placed just outside Hanamura. Then they turned around the corner and followed the stairs they led them to the upper catwalk, just in front of the compound.

They sat in silence, and the man offered her one of his beer cans but she waved her hand, dismissing the drink.

“Another late night for you, old man?” She whispered as she watched him drink his beer.

“I told you I would wait for you,” He looked her in the eye, “I really don’t want to wake up in the morning and have Satya telling me that their turrets registered activity but nobody’s showing on the screens.” His comment made her grin proudly at herself, as her legs danced before her, kicking nothing but air. He took another sip of his beer as his eyes drifted away from her, “I train at night.” He confessed. “Been training on my own since they found out who I really am.”

“Why?”

He sighed,

“It’s better this way.”

Contemplating his face by the dim streetlights she understood he _was_ his scars. A creature of the night, seeking solace in solitude and trying his best to avoid the eyes that could confuse him with the one he was no more. Jack Morrison still lived behind that mask, everybody was well aware of that fact. There were traces of his old self scattered here and there, all across his broken face for them to try to shape his puzzle. But every time someone would get too close, he would simply close off and let the vigilante take over.

“I’ve always been a nocturnal person.” He explained. “I was the only one that was still awake when Winston found out about Talon and Japan… at least that’s what we thought.”

“What’s it with them?” she asked, her eyes lost in thought.

“I don’t know,” he sighed, “Been this way for some days now – every conversation ends up in a fight. I really wouldn’t like to know what’s behind all that yelling, though. It’s easy to see the pain in both of them, destroying them from deep within, tearing them apart.”

There was a brief moment of silence, a parenthesis of soundless peace that knew no harm. Then he placed one of his hands on her nearest knee and looked her in the eye.

“Are you still mad at me for the things I used to say about you when we were younger?”

His question took her by surprise yet the woman shook her head calmingly. It had been too long it was utterly pointless to even try to hold on to yesterday’s discord.

“I guess we just didn’t understand each other back then.” She said after a while, her eyes lost in thought. “Truth be told, when we first met I thought that a man with your looks and Gerard’s personality would be like heaven on earth.”

“I’m flattered.” He said, his cheeks turning red at her unexpected confession.

“Do you think he would have aged well?”

“Mr. High Maintenance?” he joked, remembering his friend, “No doubt about it. Still, I can’t understand why you chose him and not me… back then, I mean, don’t look at me now, I was in an explosion, remember?”

He was feeling brave, she sensed. Perhaps it was the alcohol talking, or maybe he was finally able to be himself, a man in his element, facing his own yesterdays in the shape of that woman sitting right next to him.

“Maybe I was able to scan you both with my eyes and see what each one of you had to offer.” She said.

“We were at the same bar; you didn’t even look at me.” Jack retorted. “I was older than Gerard, but not _much_ older. If anything, I looked younger than him.”

“You couldn’t say a single word in French…” the woman fought back and he laughed, genuinely.

“Maybe it was a good thing…” he pondered, “that you didn’t even look at me.”

“Maybe it was.” she agreed, “He understood everything… he really did.” Her constricted throat was not enough to keep her from remembering the one she had loved and lost, “Even when we had just started dating, he was more than just a boyfriend to me – he took me in, gave me a home.” She paused, brokenhearted by the memories, “I lost everything when I decided to become a ballerina. My family was loaded, but they did not accept my career choice: they wanted me to become a lawyer; that was the family heritage, what the blood dictated - that was what I was supposed to be. But I wanted something different, so I left, and started anew in the big city.”

“I used to rely on him too,” Jack remembered as well, “When I became Strike-Commander I couldn’t take the political affairs, all the bureaucracy, all the meetings with ministers and governors… But Gerard kept me grounded throughout the years, helped me pull through.”

Amelie took one of his beers and opened the can. She drank the sour liquid slowly, her eyes lost in the canopy of clouds blocking the stars.

“You really portray time like no other, Jack.” She let her beer can rest right next to her leg and cupped his hands with hers, “To me, time is a substance that was taken away from me – but it lives in you: in your scars, in your eyes and voice. I can see we’ve all been through the same process of loss and defeat, but it is remarkably palpable in you. Maybe it all comes down to who we are, our true identity.”

“Everyone tried to go back and be the ones they were before,” he said, squeezing her hand, “I needed to be someone else... your case is different, though, they forced you to be someone else – they stole a part of your history. There was no downward spiral for you, no way down; just a void, and an irony, a cruel joke that fate had reserved just for you: they named you Widowmaker but the first widow you… _made..._ was yourself.”

She nodded, retrieving her hand.

“When I was a little girl, my father used to say that I was tenacious enough to lead an entire criminal empire. My mother would curse him then, telling him it was not right to say such things to a child.” Her eyes darkened at the evocation of her parents, the sepia colored bridge of memories was not enough to mitigate the effects of bad parenting, “Sometimes I like to think that everything that happened to me was nothing more than a very unfortunate chain reaction of terrible coincidences. I can’t even blame god anymore – I don’t believe that such an almighty being exists anymore. Maybe my father’s words were a premonition, you know?”

He shook his head, pensively.

“My story seems both completely whimsical and punctiliously tailored – just like religion itself.” She laughed. “Now, I know a lot of people think the same as me, that there’s no god out there, watching over us. But tell me, Jack, have you ever met someone who doubted the devil? Have you ever met someone who thought there is no such place like hell? That seems to be what we all have in common: a darkness within we cannot escape from.”

He finished his second beer in silence then allowed his fingers to toy with the empty can for a short while. “When Gerard told me your story; a rich girl who had left everything behind because she wanted to dance… I could not understand it.” He whispered. “He wasn’t even good looking, you were way out of his league… you were so young, so beautiful…” he swallowed hard, choking on his own words, “At first I thought you were a spy, trying to seduce him. Then I thought you were a gold-digger, looking for a sugar daddy.”

She laughed out loud, slapping her knee.

“Well, first impressions don’t always count,” she retorted with a smile. “If anything, at first I thought you were an idiot. Then I thought you were a moron.”

“Hey, watch it – I’m still your superior.” An empty threat. A timid grin.

“You’re nobody’s superior, Jack.” She said, her eyes finding his. “You just act as if you were – but you’re not. You are a reformed vigilante, 76 – the one you chose to be.” She looked down, minutely, regretting the fact that her words had sounded harsher than she had intended, “What you did to Angela was wrong, Jack – she had the right to know.”

“I know.” He whispered, “But when I came back to Gibraltar and I saw her – so happy, so in love… I just couldn’t take that away from her.” The sniper patted his shoulder gently, then let her hands rest on her lap, “These love stories, all of them, Amelie… there are no happy endings for us. We all know these loves are only temporary – even them… they are no strangers to this – they know it will end, eventually. Perhaps sooner than later.”

“Do you miss her?”

“I used to miss her – when I first arrived in Gibraltar… I used to miss her every time she was around. Now I know that watching her from afar has to do.” He was honest. Broken, but brutally honest.

“You didn’t even tell her that you’re sorry.” Amelie fought back.

“That’s because I’m not. If it was up to me, she would have never known that I’m alive. Jack should have remained dead.”

“I’m sorry.” She mumbled.

“Don’t be. Paradoxically enough, you did what you had to do.” He said. “Your question blinded me that day… _where was I when you needed me the most_ … I was enjoying a little free time, having a drink with a woman whose name I can’t even remember.” He stared deeply into her eyes, the emotion overcoming him, “I should have been there, I should have realized that something was off, that something was wrong with you.”

“He would have died all the same, Jack. One way or another.” The woman leaned in closer, resting her head on his shoulder. “I have accepted that a long time ago. It’s time you do the same.”

“I think so too.” He confessed as his voice trailed off for a moment, “had he come to your rescue, they would have killed him themselves. That’s what they wanted after all. To get rid of the pebble in their shoe… but they used you, they took his death and saw beyond the brutality of it, they made it _poetic_ … That’s how they managed to change the way we remember him. If they had killed him while he was trying to rescue you he would have died a hero. But they made him die a victim. A helpless victim who didn’t even had the chance to fight back. That’s not who he was – but that’s how we remember him. These manufactured memories… so artificial, so inherently mechanical… they have blocked the real Gerard from our eyes, his simplicity, his true essence.”

She tried to speak but the words would not leave her mouth.

“Now that man over there,” he said as his fingers pointed at Hanamura, “He’s not a simple man, and he doesn’t come with an instructions manual. What you can have with him now is never going to be like what you and Gerard once shared. Now you are only gonna get what most of us get: drama… nothing but drama.” He paused, “That man is a broken man, Amelie, probably more broken than you or me – maybe beyond repair. Are you sure that’s what you want for yourself?”

She wasn’t.

But at least, in her heart, she felt she had to try.

“I know.” She said as she lifted her chin, and looked him in the eye, “Gerard gave me such a simple love… but now I can only feel this urgency taking over me. It’s completely new – I don’t really know how to handle it.”

“There’s no handling it. You couldn’t stay away from him for more than what? A couple weeks?”

She nodded, ashamed: “How did you handle it? With Angela?”

“Oh…” he grinned, and trapped his lower lip between his teeth, “trust me, you don’t wanna know.”

She shifted position to face him, her legs crossed before him.

“How are you, Jack? Really.”

He smiled again; it had been so long since his ears had heard that question.

“Alone.” He sentenced. “Although Ana calls me every day. She still can’t get over the fact that she didn’t realize it was me.”

“She didn’t know?”

“No. Only Winston and Reinhardt knew.” He confessed. “I think Torbjörn had his suspicions, but he never said a word about it. At least not to me.” He opened the last beer, and offered it to her, “Ana couldn’t see who I really was – or maybe she chose not to. And I joke with her, every time I can, I tell her that she was unable to see me because she only has one good eye.” He regretted his words as soon as they reached the outside. “I’m sorry. I just realized it’s not funny.”

“It’s okay.” She tried to sound reassuring but the feeling was persistent. They were trapped in their tragic pasts, and there was no easy way out.

“You were not the one who hurt Ana – and you were not the one who killed Gerard. _She_ was.”

She nodded, still the lump in her throat was making it impossible for the woman to speak. He put his arms around her, rocking her body gently as the wind blew harder in the cloudy night.

“I didn’t mean to be such an ass to you during your first mission.” He said, “Everything I did to you that day, everything I said… I just wanted you to leave. Gerard wouldn’t want you to be here, seeking revenge, potentially getting hurt, caught in the crossfire. I read Angela’s report, Amelie – if they try to change you again we won’t be able to help you. You’ll be lost, forever.” The woman shifted in his arms, seeking eye contact, “Your head won’t survive their reconditioning, Amelie. Not again. I know it, Angela knows it – Hanzo knows it. That’s why he doesn’t want you here; he doesn’t want you anywhere near Talon.”

“How do you know he does not want me here?” her reddened eyes were piercing his, trying to get inside his head, trying to swim amongst his answers.

“He told me.” He said, bluntly. “I lied to you. It’s not that Hanzo didn’t ask for anyone in particular. He did. He specifically said that he didn’t want you here. I lied to you because I didn’t want you to feel rejected, and Angela was there too…” He lowered his head, breaking eye contact, “He’s gonna be pissed.”

"That's why you let me in last night," she realized, breaking free from his embrace, "You needed me last night, just like you need me now, Jack." She laughed, briefly, tenderly, "I'm the only one who keeps you company, Morrison." She leaned in and let her lips hover over his, then the kiss surprised him with its unprecedented generosity.

Small and meaningful, the gesture was pure in its nature. Her mouth moved on his mouth as if it had a mind of its own and he reciprocated with renewed intent, knowing all too well that her need was his own, that her shattered memories were his as well. The kiss, meant to die its peaceful death, had united them in a brief _what-if_ , a small token of a past that had never existed, meant to quiet down the ghosts of everything that had gone wrong for them.

Sealed forever inside the depths of such peculiar bond, the ones they were no more had been finally reconciled.

With a soft sigh, their lips parted, never to meet again. Yet the unique symbolism had been more than enough, for they both knew better than to long for things that were, simply, not meant to be.

“Do you think he’s there, somewhere? That he can be saved, just like you were?” he whispered against her lips.

There was no need to put a name to the anima still connecting their pasts with their present.

She shook her head, and let her forehead rest against his.

“Don’t seek revenge, Amelie.” He said, still unable to let go, “You have Gabriel’s tenacity, and Gerard’s spirit burning inside of you. I can see them struggle but just this once, let Gerard win. Just go there and take Hanzo, leave or stay, that’s completely up to you, but be yourself and let him be himself – far from all this, away from all this shit. There are no happy endings, Amelie, you know this better than anyone… just take the man you really want and leave all this shit behind while you still can. This rotten apple, this stinking smell of blood… it’s our essence, it’s _my_ essence: to always go back to war and fight the good fight for those we had to bury. But it doesn’t have to be your war. Revenge will lead you nowhere. Trust me…”

She planted a soft kiss on his forehead as she moved away from him. Then she stood up and grinned softly at him.

“Godspeed, Agent Guillard.” She heard him say as she walked down the stairs and went back into the streets. He watched her, from the distance, as her figure disappeared behind the door.

Black as night, she walked through endless gardens in the misty rain. Pink and black seemed to have blended into one rich shade of crimson all around her.

She pushed the door open only to find him resting on the desk. His face hidden in an ocean of papers, his arms spread out on the surface. The discarded pen watched her from afar, lost in the castle of numbers he had written on those pages. She caressed his long, black hair with one hand, and let the other rest on the small of his back.

Then she leaned in, and whispered in his ear:

“It’s raining, Hanzo… and it’s really, really late. Don’t you think it’s time you went to bed?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Such a misleading title, wasn’t it?
> 
> Also, after the second chapter I began to feel like I needed to see a different Jack, I just needed Jack to be Jack again and while I don’t regret the fact that I made him look like a villain in that chapter, I think this man conveys the quintessential element for this story: nothing is as it seems, nobody is exactly like we thought they were. Totally self-indulgent and selfish: I needed this Jack to come out, reach the surface. 
> 
> This chapter wasn’t as lengthy as the previous ones because, in all honesty, it should have been part of the previous chapter (at least, in my mind, the narrative sequence made sense). Still, I decided to treat these events like some sort of a bridge between acts, really, separating Amelie’s journey from the point we are expecting the most: her reunion with Hanzo. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, adding to your faves, bookmarking, leaving kudos (depending on which site you’re reading this story) writing to me, reviewing, etc. I feel very, very grateful, and very, very flattered.
> 
> Cheers!  
> E.


	6. A Sentimental Education

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was not a feast. Not a banquet.  
> It was a purge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter of the year! I hope you enjoy! Have yourselves a merry Christmas and an awesome 2018!

Variations on a Theme

Act VI

**A Sentimental Education**

* * *

 " _I speak as if he had no secrets from me. Well, then, you must know I was suffering from love and I knew him as intimately as I knew my own image in a mirror. In other words, I knew him only in relation to myself.”_

Angela Carter – A souvenir of Japan (Burning Your Boats – The Collected Short Stories)

* * *

 

**Part A**

**The Storm**

 

_“To hate something that you used to love is such a painful feeling.”_

Ciel Phantomhive - Kuroshitsuji

.

.

.

**I – Watch Your Mouth**

It was hard not to think about the most mechanical aspects of sex.

The activity, so intrinsically human, still derived from the most basal of instincts; past all feelings and emotions, beyond the flesh and the shared sentiment – it still was, indeed, such a mechanical endeavor.

McCree had never complained about angry sex. He understood others needed it to express themselves – loved ones, even occasional companions. He understood, after all, that by turning his body into a catalyst he could at least provide them with a moment of carnal understanding. It was the least he could do, he knew, to make sure the ones he loved would feel better.

A selfless lover, that’s what he was: a simple man, always ready to look the other way and suppress his own methods if that helped them – even if that meant quieting the voices swimming inside his head for he knew, he was almost certain of it: when words can’t say anything, talking becomes a burden.

Solitude and alcohol, his greatest allies during troublesome times, were simply not enough for others. But he was – his body, that is, the temple of his humanity.

Life didn’t grace him with any real, approachable opportunities until it was much too late for him but even so, and even then, the notion that chance and choice were simply not the same had always resounded inside his head, like a lackluster echo always eager to remind him of everything he could have been. Unlike the ones he loved, he had never been given the chance to attend a fancy college, nor life had provided him with the opportunity to grow and bloom inside an organization yet he knew, and they knew, he was the only one who could teach them things they were never going to learn at school.

A real enabler, that’s what he was. _Sensei_. Humble in his teachings, never judging them for their shortcomings or their twisted needs – always eager to receive whatever they had to give.

A man that takes and waits, ever so patiently, because he understands that the time for words will come, eventually.

Only this time, it doesn’t.

“You could have at least taken your helmet off,” he breathed out, his legs still tangled up around the bedsheets, “Eye contact’s still a thing these days, y’know?” A sweaty palm landed on the Sparrow’s back – his body more human than what the common eye could see – and the younger man curved his waist until he leaned quietly into the touch. Still, no words would escape his mouth, not even a sound. Nothing.

There was a renewed tension inside that man. He had been acting weird lately.

Every time he would speak to his brother the whole world would go up in flames.

“Still nothing?” McCree mumbled helplessly.

_Nothing._

Jesse propped himself up with his hands and looked over the window: it had been raining for hours and even if the storm was being gentle, it still had him trapped inside that room with a man that wouldn’t talk to him. Resting his head back on the pillow again, the cowboy closed his eyes and breathed out through parted lips: he was exhausted, still, sleep seemed determined to evade him. When he sat down on the bed, looked over his shoulder and punched the pillow at his back the Sparrow gave him a puzzled look –

“What?” He asked, surprised to see that gesture of absolute despondence taking over the cowboy’s face. “It was good, wasn’t it?”

The older man nodded, but now it was his time to remain silent. He could understand their needs, could even understand stress and sorrow but the idea had already blossomed inside his head and the thought was beginning to take root and contaminate him: perhaps the bond between the brothers was shattered beyond repair – perhaps trying was pointless, and their endless struggle could only hurt the ones around the two of them.

He could see it inside Hanzo’s eyes as well; that point when words simply stop being relevant, when the greatest decision of all begins to weight down upon them.

_Is it really worth it?_

“Are you giving me the silent treatment now?” Genji went on, folding his arms across his torso.

_Nothing._

“Well, you certainly enjoyed that, so…”

The cowboy rolled on his side and closed his eyes again knowing a bit too well that even the most innocuous of words would be enough to set the whole room on fire. A precarious kiss landed on his shoulder, cold and artificial, just like metal.

“You got goosebumps all over your skin,” Genji whispered as he leaned closer, “I sort of miss that, in a way – the weather has become one less thing for me to worry about.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” The cowboy asked as he sat down on the bed once more, his fingers already reaching for the pack of smokes resting on the bedside table.

The Sparrow reached out to him, as his hands stopped him before he could even choose a cigarette. He stared deeply into his eyes, even when the green lights of his visor didn’t seem to notice the cowboy’s presence.

“Don’t smoke in my room.” He sentenced.

There he was again – changing like the tide, insufferably jumping from victim to executioner in a mere matter of seconds.

Standing up and leaving the bed, McCree walked towards the window to check if it was still raining outside. His naked silhouette, contrasting the darkness of the room, was casting a light of its own as the pale moon fought its way through the canopy of dense, dark clouds in the sky.

“Are you like this because you can’t seem to be able to talk to your brother without fighting?” The older man let out timidly, resting his forehead against the glass before him. “Is it because you miss Angela?” He added, acknowledging the fact that Genji’s unspoken answer could hide the fact that maybe; just maybe, he wasn’t enough for the younger Shimada.

Hydraulics hissed as the Sparrow approached the lonely cowboy staring at the rain – he removed his visor and helmet and glued his back to the window, facing McCree, and all his doubts.

He took his hand in his then he looked down.

“It’s not what he started,” he confessed, “It’s what he couldn’t finish.”

Alarming thoughts began to plague the cowboy’s mind – he had seen Genji struggle for so long still he could not bring himself to believe the words he had just heard.

“I know you’re trying, Genji… but if it’s not working, then please just let it go.”

The Sparrow roared, letting go from the cowboy’s hand, “You of all people… you know how hard I tried, you know everything I had to go through in order to… How can you say that to me?”

“Somebody has to.”

He had never seen Jesse so tense before – the honesty encysted deep inside his words, lacking all sense of emotion, was shattering him to pieces.

“I can’t let it go, Jesse,” The Sparrow breathed out calmly as he sat down at the edge of the bed with his head hanging low, right between his thighs, “I can’t let _him_ go – he didn’t let me go back then, when he still had the chance… that was all I ever wanted from him: to let me go, to let me be free.” When he looked up again, the storm had set inside his eyes – “It’s not what he did, Jesse – it’s what he took from me.”

The older man scratched the back of his neck as he approached the bed and knelt down before the Sparrow: for once it seemed they were unable to speak the same language.

“You accepted who you are now…” McCree whispered, “We all did.”

“Because I had no choice. But he did. He could have chosen to spare me, to let me go.”

McCree reached out to him and planted a soft kiss on the Sparrow’s lips. Then the younger man smiled, engrossed in the fragile silence they had found after love and war had both been extinguished. He tried to suppress the thought but the image of that man appeared vividly in the theater of his memory.

He should have bitten his own tongue.

“What would he think of us now?” Genji breathed out, as he leaned his back against the mattress, the sheets barely covering his body. McCree tilted his head to the side, taken aback by the unwanted intromission, but still, the cowboy did not grace his ears with an answer. His naked shape towered over him, completely exposed yet paradigmatically inaccessible.

The green light of his visor flickered and flashed briefly at the sight of countless drops of sweat still covering the cowboy’s neck and chest. With gentle movements, McCree loomed over his boyfriend with lips that knew no compassion. He snatched the sheets and wrapped himself up in them, covering his body from the waist down in one swift movement. His eyes, detached from the room – _from him, one of the objects of his affection_ – did not even care to grace his man with a simple, meaningless look.

Silence killed him from within, as guilt welled within his guts. Who was he to bring such a ghost to the conversation, after all? Even for him, or even for the irascible version of himself he had shown during the last couple of months, it was low.

The cowboy couldn’t even talk about that man; couldn’t even remember him without retreating back to the somber depths of his own convoluted, troubled mind. And still, he had summoned Jesse’s biggest nightmare all the same, in the midst of the fight, in the agora of peace.

Despicable.

Unforgivable.

Regardless of the Sparrow’s previous order, Jesse lit up a cigar and opened the window, allowing the moon to bathe his features in its melancholic, milky aura as countless raindrops came to greet his tired features as the wind shook the trees, inviting the branches and leaves to waltz in the darkness. Stepping out into the night, the man noticed how the rain had stopped, even when the dark clouds above his head were still speaking about an imminent storm. Forearms on the railing, his voice soared in the night, finally.

“You should talk to your brother.” He whispered, “ _Talk_ – start with a word, then try using another one and so on, and so on. Keep your tone down while you’re at it, but if at some point you feel like yelling at him, just pause and start all over again. Just _talk_ , you know.” A dense cloud of smoke engulfed his face for a fleeting instant, “And if you can’t talk to him, then talk to me, talk to Zenyatta… you’re better than this.”

It was unlike him, to lecture the Sparrow in such a way.

“I’m afraid the time for words is already behind us,” Genji said, walking towards the cowboy. “My brother and I… talking is no longer an option.”

Jesse turned around, but even if his words were soft, the distance in his eyes was still there.

“Talking is always an option.”

Genji moved closer and rested his chin on the cowboy’s shoulder. But the older man moved away from him, and went back inside the room as the Sparrow watched him leave, helpless.

“Then why is it that you can’t talk about Gabriel?”

McCree took a deep breath before speaking – he could understand that the confrontation with Hanzo was taking its toll on Genji, still, he could not justify the Sparrow’s thoughtless words.

“I understand…” he began, hands on his temples, “I understand how hard it must be to try to patch things up with your brother after everything you’ve been through. Even if he hadn’t hurt you, even if he hadn’t killed you, I can understand such images are impossible to shake off: a loved one, attacking you, harming you… I don’t know how you ever managed to forgive him – I admire you for it.”

“You cannot possibly understand what it feels like.” The Sparrow spat coldly, his venomous eyes deconstructing his boyfriend’s features with an uncanny animosity McCree had never seen before inside that man.

Trying his best to keep his composure, the cowboy tap his foot against the floor in a feverish rhythm.

“Trust me, I can.” He retorted. “I can still remember the closest approximation I ever had to a father trying to murder me.”

“It’s not the same.” Genji yelled, motioning towards the cowboy and stopping right before him, “It’s _blood_. It’s _family_.”

When Jesse pushed him aside and stood up, the Sparrow understood that he had said too much.  In the name of a pain he couldn’t contain, he had shattered their bond.

“Why don’t you say that to Amelie?” McCree whispered as he picked up his clothes, “Why don’t you try explaining to her that killing Gerard was not a big deal because even if they were married they didn’t share any blood ties.”

The younger man hid his head in his hands. He couldn’t stand to watch Jesse leave.

“ _Blood_ … it’s good to know that’s how you see us. We were the ones who took you in when your own _blood_ tried to kill you… You should have told us beforehand, love, that we were never gonna be good enough for ya.” The cowboy mumbled carelessly as he put on his jeans, “And then _he_ called _me_ ingrate…”

“Jesse wait,” Genji pleaded, “Don’t go like this, I didn’t mean it like that.”

The cowboy looked over his shoulder; the same icy look he had seen inside the Sparrow’s eyes only a few minutes ago was now encysted deep inside his own distant stare.

He slammed the door.

He needed a drink.

.

.

.

**II – Preparedness**

Her hands, soft and warm against his skin, helped his senses float for a while, in the impervious vacuum that separates dreams from reality – and there he stayed, for as long as he could, rocked by the tender abyss of nothingness that only she could provide. Until his eyes began to slowly swim back into focus, the edges of her figure becoming more and more real with each passing moment. He looked at her and smiled softly, addressing the anima reaching out to him as a mere figment of his imagination – then he stretched one of his hands and touched her.

Only then, when his fingers anchored her to everything that’s current, to everything that’s mundane; the precarious curve adorning his lips faded, bringing him back to reality and exposing him as agnostic and skeptical in his own twisted faith.

A certain fury dawned on him, yet he let it slide through his fingers as he rearranged his black robe and watched as the woman moved around his desk and sat on the edge, facing him.

“Were you deployed?” He asked.

The woman shook her head and the archer breathed out softly: at least they had cared enough to listen to him when he said he didn’t want Amelie to be sent to Hanamura.

“Then what are you doing here?” The coldness in his voice matched the atmosphere of the last moments they had shared back in Gibraltar. “Does Morrison know that you’re here?”

His second question made it easier for the woman to somehow provide him with an answer. Though deprived of words or phonemes, Amelie nodded her head in silent agreement to let him know that the former Strike-Commander had approved her decision. Deep down she had known, all along since leaving Gibraltar, that Hanzo wouldn’t be pleased to see her and still his frowny face and his cryptic messages were not enough to stop her: she needed to see him, needed to know why he had lied to her.

The dark circles around his eyes helped her see that her questions would have to wait. If Jack’s words were anything to go by, then the weakened bond between the brothers was facing one of its darkest hours once again – and she was intruding, after all.

She didn’t have to ask him what was wrong – the symptoms of yet another fight were clearly written all over his face. She leaned closer, cupping his face with both her hands and for a brief moment, the archer gave up and leaned into her touch with his eyes closed and his lips pressed tightly together. He kissed the palm of her hand, ever so gently, then snaked his arms around her waist to finally let his head rest against her stomach. Thin, pale fingers ran through his hair, then, sheltering him from the world outside that room.

“Tough days…”

When his words told her about Meisa and her sons, about Genji and the ambivalent moods they were sharing, the woman took a deep breath and accepted the tiresome waves of defeat he had to offer. Still, it pained her to pretend she didn’t know about the maid and her shady position in the whole Talon ordeal they were about to face – even when he had lied to her, her secret was weighing down on her, making her feel selfish and powerless.

He looked up at her, then back at his own hands. For a fraction of a second, he even dared to anticipate the kiss.

But when the moment came, his unfeeling mouth could not find the strength to move.

“Leave.” His harsh voice brushed against her lips and his order felt soft against her mouth. The woman backed up instinctively and took a good look at the torn man staring right back at her – that reckless spirit of his, albeit struggling to keep her near, could not afford another battle.

So she didn’t fight him.

Amelie got on her feet, placed a soft kiss on his forehead and exited the office in silence. Standing in the rain, the woman crossed her arms over her chest and waited patiently in the night. As still as a statue, contemplating life occurring at the other side of the great glass window, the woman kept her eyes trained on the figure of that man she had grown so attached to, as he moved and walked around the office, pretending to be busy, tricking his mind with vague numbers and obsolete calculations.

When the thunder decided it was time to strike the Earth, the Frenchwoman sat down on a large rock and there she stayed, watching him from afar, welcoming the storm. Every now and then, Hanzo would look for her in the rain. But every time their eyes would meet he would withdraw to the comfort of mathematics, letting his eyes fall back to the many books scattered on his desk as if trying to fool her.

Hours passed her by but the woman didn’t even flinch. The weather punished her with wind and lighting yet her eyes could not look away from the real showdown of light and shadow taking place inside that office.

He fought her determination with indifference, yet the flame was already burning and the heartless rain didn’t seem to be enough to suffocate the fire – patience was a virtue, they had told him, and she was virtuous in every single way. He stood up and walked towards the door. Stopping by the threshold, he took off his robe and his shoes as he embraced the same storm that had brought her to him.

The man knelt before her as his hands found an anchor in her hips, just like a jaded castaway, lashed by the furious oceans, seeking his own, private shore.

“You can stay tonight, but not in my room.” He began, stern as usual even when his eyes were stating otherwise, “Come daylight, I shall ask you to return to Gibraltar.” He whispered.

“Come daylight, I shall say no to your request.”

They stood up as their lips coalesced to fight back the storm.

“It’s a fight, then,” Hanzo whispered, with his arms still chained around her waist.

“It’s a fight.” She said, accepting his challenge.

.

.

.

**III – Alone With Everybody ( _This Fucking Storm_ )**

Her reunion with Hanzo the night before had left a bittersweet aftertaste in her mouth. The many colors he had shown in the prismatic view of his private world were in perfect concordance with the chiaroscuro that always seemed to accompany him.

The room he had assigned to her was as sterile as loneliness itself, pragmatic and impractical at the same obnoxious time.

Morrison was the first to spot her that morning. Pacing around the deserted kitchen, trying to absorb every inch of that space she now inhabited. He helped her with the coffee machine, but chose not to ask any questions regarding her meeting with the archer – if her sullen expression was any indication for the man to deduce her luck, he was almost certain she hadn’t had such thing balancing the odds in her favor. One thing was clear though: she was determined to stay and Morrison knew there was little he could do to change her mind.

“What will you tell the others when they see me?” She inquired, raising an eyebrow.

The man shook his head and grinned softly at himself.

“I don’t have to tell them anything. You said it yourself last night: I’m nobody’s superior.” He remembered her words the night before; sharp as a blade, genuine as the truth.

“Haha... How clever…” Amelie faked a smile as she crossed her arms over her chest, welcoming the aroma emanating from the coffee machine, “Even if that’s true, they still see you as their Strike-Commander.”

She was probably right, he pondered – they still saw him as a figure of authority, as a boss to turn to or to avoid, depending on the situation. But that was all there was to it: a solemn chain of command that had nothing to do with real, personal interactions between him and the rest of the members of the clandestine organization he had loved so much, back in the day.

“They only see me as a liar or a pariah.”

The woman stretched out one of her hands but retracted it before it had reached him – the kiss they had shared the night before had been nothing but the materialization of the pity she felt for him, but nothing more. And when it came to someone like Jack Morrison, a recondite emotion such as pity could only get them so far: “No, they don’t.” She said. “They still love you, Jack – even after all these years. You can’t exactly blame them for feeling the way they do – both your lies and your return must have been a hard pill to swallow… but once this moment is behind us, once this fucking storm is over… you’ll be their leader again.”

The weather seemed to agree with her somehow. As they both looked out the window they noticed the dark canopy of clouds still covering up the sky. Day and night had been blended into one shared obscurity, or so it seemed.

In spite of their small talk, morning progressed nonetheless, with the typical laziness of a rainy day: slow, and languid. One by one, they all gathered around the large wooden table for breakfast but instead of just coffee and toasts, they got an unexpected arrival, waiting for them. The puzzled looks and expressions that were traveling from one face to the other were not enough to convey the million questions regarding Amelie’s presence in Hanamura. Only McCree seemed to be somewhat happy to see her there, while the Shimada brothers, far from showing any signs of sympathy towards the woman, seemed deeply concerned to find her there, even when Hanzo had seen her the previous night – at least they seemed to finally be able to agree on something, Morrison thought as he finished his coffee in silence.

The monk, floating at the far end of the table, seemed to pay no mind to Amelie’s presence. Symmetra, on the other hand, did not miss the opportunity to mock McCree.

The architect stood up, walked around the table and placed her hands on Jesse's shoulders. Leaning closer, she whispered: “Here’s your cat… or your bird.” Satya’s bitter sense of humor was actually saying more than they could handle: her sentry turrets had registered activity two nights ago, but Amelie had only arrived in Hanamura, or so it seemed.

“Tell me,” Symmetra enquired, “It _was_ you, wasn’t it?”

Amelie hesitated for an instant but before she even had a chance to speak, Jack intervened:

“Yes, it was her. I believe that having a former Talon operative amongst us can be helpful,” his eyes, unfeeling and bossy, were already searching for the archer’s: “That is why I asked her to come join us. I’m sorry, Hanzo. I could not keep my promise.”

The older Shimada nodded his head once, his lips a perfect line of impenetrable silence. Still, Satya had her questions:

“Why are we seeing her just now?” She went on, raising a suspicious eyebrow, “And why did you block my turrets? Were you trying to prove them inefficient?”

“Oh, no. Not at all.” Amelie retorted quickly, both her hands in the air, defensively.

Satya’s doubts were contagious, she noticed, as their expressions began to change gradually, questioning her. She knew Jack didn’t want the rest of the team to find out about Meisa and the bodies until Mercy had worked her magic – still, they needed to know the truth.

“I came unannounced, disobeying Jack’s order to stay in Gibraltar.” She came clean, looking down, “I wanted to see Hanzo – but I was afraid Jack would not let me stay if he saw me… Plus, I knew Hanzo himself did not want me here, so…”

“So what?” Satya pressed on.

“I wanted to surprise him,” Amelie confessed, her cheeks turning red.

“You could have just knocked, you know?” Symmetra laughed, “This is such a big place he wouldn’t have noticed you here at all unless you went looking for him.”

Even when Amelie could understand Satya’s frustration, she was not ready to succumb to the scrutiny embedded deep inside her eyes.

“Like I told you – I thought Jack was going to kick me out the second he saw me,” The sniper said, “He was, indeed, the first one of you I encountered that night, but instead of telling me off, he said I could actually help. When I told him I wanted to speak to Hanzo first; to try to resolve some… personal issues… he said there had been a huge fight between the brothers, and that I should wait.”

Silence encompassed the entire group for a moment: it was true; the dragons were at each other’s throats and their moods were affecting the rest of them.

“Since I wanted to surprise Hanzo but I didn’t want to interfere – especially during such difficult times, I took Jack’s word and spent the night in a hotel.” Amelie continued, staring intently at the archer, “Jack and I met outside Hanamura again last night, and he told me that the situation between the brothers had not changed.”

“And you decided to come anyway,” Jesse helped her. “With Talon out there… you made the right decision.”

The woman nodded in silence, understanding the words the cowboy had left unsaid: the bond between the brothers was taking its toll on everyone around them but the bigger threat, the one lurking in the dark, was even more real and more frightening than any fight between Genji and Hanzo. The constant fighting between the brothers seemed destined to resemble the storm outside – dense and dark, menacing and vicious.

Without looking at each other, the brothers stood up and abandoned the place in silence. The cowboy reached out for the Frenchwoman and cupped her hands with his. At least someone was trying to make her feel welcome after all.

One by one they all left the kitchen. Sullied by the sounds of the rain, each hour spent amongst those walls seemed destined to stretch itself far beyond the frail intangibility of time.

.

.

.

**IV – The Broken Nest**

As the storm intensified and the day slowly gave way to night, a slender figure crossed the gates of Hanamura. Sheltered by an old black umbrella, the doctor moved around the buildings even when she couldn’t really tell for sure who she was looking for, or what her destination might be.

The faint lights coming from a distant room across the gardens guided her careful steps through the stone paths and glossy flowers. Flickering in the wind, the timid incandescence of candlelight was struggling to stay alive. Three young women, who seemed to be in their early thirties, were preparing some sort of ritual, the doctor guessed as soon as she arrived. Sakura blossoms were scattered all over the large wooden table where two naked bodies were being wrapped up in plain white sheets. Cocooned by bamboo and green leaves, the tender cradles they were adorning all around the corpses seemed destined to conceal the fact that the heads were missing.

Angela cleared her throat; she had read about different funerary traditions and rituals all around the globe yet the image was almost macabre.

“Excuse me,” she whispered politely, one of her hands knocking on the door even when it was wide open.

The women turned around and stared at the newcomer for a short while before returning to their tasks. None of them seemed to care about the doctor, at least not enough to ask her who she was, or what was she doing there.

One step followed the other and soon Angela found herself standing right before the mutilated bodies. The women still refused to address her presence in the room, their hands were busy, their eyes distant – as if they weren’t there at all.

“I’m looking for,” She paused, contemplating her alternatives for a moment. Jesse and Genji didn’t know what she knew, and they didn’t suspect the maid. Amelie was a former Talon agent. There was only one choice. She bit the insides of her gums before letting the name cruise in the night, “Jack Morrison.”

Ages, or decades, or entire lifetimes had gone by since that name had left her mouth for the last time.

The women looked at other then back at the doctor – judging by their puzzled expressions, they had never heard that name before.

“76,” Angela corrected herself, choosing not to think about the differences between one man and the other, “He goes by 76 now.”

Only then the three women nodded their heads and grinned politely at the doctor. One of them even stretched out one of her hands to indicate Angela where he was. The Swiss woman thanked them for the information and left the room as fast as she could – the odor, the sight of death was something she could not stand, even after all those years serving as a field doctor.

Up the stairs, second door to her left.

She hesitated briefly before knocking – even when her visit was strictly professional, they hadn’t been alone in years. 76 had always stood in the way, like a thick veil she could not trespass, preventing her eyes from fully uncovering the shape of the man she had loved millennia ago.

He clearly wasn’t expecting her. At least, not so soon. With sleepy eyes and a frowny face, the man made room for the woman to step inside. Then he put on a t-shirt, feeling awkward and somewhat frustrated by her mere presence.

“Do you have the results?” He barked, as usually, as he sat down on his bed. The woman nodded her head once, in complete silence, as she stood by the door, almost petrified. “We should call Amelie, then,” The old man suggested.

“Genji and Hanzo should join us too,” Now it was her turn to bring in others, to stretch the space between her and that unreadable version of Jack. The old soldier considered her suggestion for a while before nodding his head. Then he walked to the door and beckoned the doctor to walk with him.

The sounds of the rain, in fluid conversation with the howling wind and the furious thunder, accompanied their silent steps. 76 ordered Angela to wait for him in the kitchen and the woman obliged. In just a couple of minutes, he returned, accompanied by the two snipers and the cyborg ninja.

No coffee was offered, no greetings were exchanged.

There was just one single moment of pure affection in that room, as the Sparrow held one of Angela’s hands in his but the woman let go, discreetly, as they all sat by the counter.

Unlike Amelie’s unexpected arrival, the doctor seemed welcomed by the three men. Hanzo even took a moment to say that now that there was _proper medical care_ in the compound the rest of the team would have nothing to worry about. Subtleties aside, Genji couldn’t help but feel his brother’s comment was only aimed towards the monk but chose not to dwell on it – eyes trained on the woman he loved, the Sparrow said:

“You didn’t tell us you’d be joining us.”

The doctor smiled quietly at him before her eyes went back to 76 – she had merely been dragged down by the soldier and the former Talon sniper: now it was their turn to explain things as they truly were.

When Amelie shook her head and looked down at her own hands, Morrison understood the task was completely up to him. He cleared his throat, and began telling the tale of his hundred suspicions; his plots and his intrigues, and how each hypothetical scenario had led them to believe that there was reason to doubt Meisa.

Enraged, Hanzo slammed his fists on the counter and his younger brother cursed under his breath – until the doctor silenced their voices:

“Those are not her sons.”

After a moment of impenetrable silence, Amelie finally found her voice: “We cannot say for sure that Meisa is involved. But until we find out, we should stay quiet about it. All of us.” She offered, conciliatorily. They were only hours away from the funerals; the pain of that grieving mother still seemed real enough to doubt her.

An austere gesture of penance took over their faces, yet it subsided quickly from the brother’s visages.

Genji was the first to stand up and leave the kitchen, still cursing under his breath. The doctor followed him outside, trying her best to talk some sense into him.

76 nodded his head once, patted the Frenchwoman on her shoulder, and went back to his room.

Then the archer stared venomously at Amelie:

“You knew about this,” He hissed darkly, “How could you lie to me?”

The woman cocked her head a little, taken aback by his accusation,

“I did not lie to you.” She retorted, “Unlike you, I tell no lies.”

An obscure grin began to curl his lips; then he folded his arms over his chest, “Don’t you dare use this to retaliate. I had my reasons.”

“I have yet to hear those.” She fought back.

He stood up and walked around the counter until he came to stand right behind her chair. Then he leaned in, his lips nearly brushing against her ear:

“And you won’t,” He whispered,”Not tonight.”

.

.

.

**V – Mother**

The occasional frog came to greet him, as the archer made his way past the pond. Jumping freely from one water lily to the other, their guttural songs seemed to cheer happily now that the rain had stopped – still, the canopy of dense, dark clouds covering the entire city was reason enough for everyone to believe that the rain was not ready to give up so easily.

Deliberatively away from the fake funeral that was being held at the far end of the compound, facing the immensity of the mountain, Hanzo’s feet kept marching on across the great gardens of Hanamura, trying his best to avoid the maid. The thought had kept him up all night, meandering through the frantic highways of his head, questioning him: who was he to keep the truth from Meisa, after all? Even if they didn’t know if the maid was indeed involved with Talon or not, he couldn’t shake the thought of his own mother, the frailty inside those crystalline but dark eyes of hers…

The condescending wind helped his black hair dance around his broad shoulders – so much gray, already conquering his temples, was already speaking loudly about a receding youth.

He was as old as she was, as old as she had been the last time he laid eyes on her.

Had she been alive to receive the news regarding the death of her youngest son, the woman would have died right there and then, her last breath devoted to cherishing the memory of the one that was no more. Had she been alive to find out that the protective older brother had been the one asphyxiating the Sparrow’s dreams, she would have died a thousand deaths in but a brief instant; her love tarnished and eternal, corrupted and saint.

Fate had been kind enough. Death took her in time, or so it seemed. Her final goodbye had prevented the mother from having to bury her own son.

If he had to be completely honest with himself, he had no clue what had brought him there. What had kept him marching on and on, revisiting the splendidly colorful sights of yesterday in the monochrome version of his present.

He hadn’t talked to her in such a long time…

Kneeling down before his mother’s gravestone, the archer closed his eyes as if afraid of what the silent dialogue could bring. His feet had led him to that place; sheltered between cherry blossoms and the calm waters of the pond – trapped in the scene she had loved so much, that woman had never fully abandoned his son, not even in death. There were sparks of her that were still fighting their way inside the tormented son, the one she had held so dearly during his childhood years, way before indoctrination had molded him, way before weapons and blood and death. So small and innocent, alive between her warm hands – such eyes, she knew, they had been blessed.

The way she would always look at him every time Genji was around was still tattooed inside his eyes, like an eternal flame that could endure even the cruelest of hurricanes. How he would care for his baby brother, how he would look after him with eager eyes while barely dancing on his tiptoes. Her hands, messing with his hair, showering him with love…

What a great brother he had been when they were but little children.

And now he was there, with his old knees kissing the place they had chosen for her, after so much time, after so much blood.

He had always avoided that precise spot, every single year, every single time he would become a trespasser in his own territory to remember the brother he himself had killed.

What was he supposed to tell her, after all?

_Mother, look what I’ve done._

He covered his face with his hands but her image appeared before him, asking him about the past, struggling to recognize her little boy in the shape of that mercenary.

_Mother, I’m so sorry._

“I couldn’t help but notice you never once looked at Father’s grave.” Genji’s gentle voice surprised him, “It’s like you can only see her, but you cannot see him. Strangely enough, you still remind me of him: without shades in between your black and your white, feared but respected; severe… and ultimately lonesome, like a king without his crown.”

The archer stayed where he was, rubbing his fingers gently across his face, wiping away his tears.

“Did you tell Meisa?” Genji asked, kneeling down beside his brother. The archer shook his head in silence. “I didn’t tell her either. Still, the thought plagues me, brother.”

A solitary hand broke the distance between them and landed on the Sparrow’s nearest shoulder.

“I know, Genji.” Hanzo whispered, “I know.”

The dragons gave way to silence, then, allowing the wild winds to become just a distant echo of the hurricane stirring inside of them. Songs of death and farewell followed suit, brought by the breeze, still, the vacant lament seemed destined to reflect the perfidy of an apocryphal torment.

“I should have told you, Hanzo.” Genji began, his helmet off, his eyes closed, “Instead of trying to run away, I should have told you about the Talon connection. Everything I heard that day, everything I saw.” He held his breath for as long as he could, waiting for an answer that never came, “I thought you would never believe me, but that wasn’t it – you were never going to let Talon interfere with the clan but the web was already woven all around us.” Only then he opened his eyes, still, he kept his sight trained on their mother’s gravestone, “It took me years to realize that even if I had managed to convince you back then, your life would have been ruined all the same. They would have corrupted you, or chased after you, or even killed you – if they had to.”

It took him some time to find his voice. His constricted throat, fighting to let the words out, was becoming his worst enemy.

“This isn’t working, Genji.” It was as painful as it was obvious: no matter how hard they tried, they only seemed destined to cause each other harm.

“I know, Hanzo.” Genji finally acknowledged, “I know.”

When the Sparrow stood up and looked over his shoulder, he saw the Frenchwoman contemplating the scene from the bridge. He waved his hand at her, then turned around once more, facing Hanzo.

“Mother would have liked her.”

The archer nodded. His eyes closed, his hands curled up into fists hanging at the sides of his body.

“You really need to stop running away, Hanzo,” The Sparrow said, still standing just a few inches away from his older brother, “From me, from the memory of clan, from everything we never said to each other, from what you did to me; what you did to yourself – from _her_.”

Hanzo’s silence, his apathy and his apparent indifference, felt like a slap in the face for the cyborg ninja. They were reaching the end of the rope yet the archer seemed to have given up already.

“Of course you won’t,” Genji said as quietly as he could, chewing on his fury, tasting the sour nature of their bond, “You are not man enough.”

His shadow disappeared before Hanzo could even turn around to face him.

The archer stood up and looked over his shoulder – still, alone in that bridge, the woman waited.

.

.

.

* * *

 

**Part B**

**If I Should Fall From Grace**

_“What you did to me made me see myself somethin' awful.”_

Fiona Apple – Oh well.

.

.

.

 

**VI – Smoke and Mirrors**

That night was meant to be different, in all possible ways.

For the first time since arriving in Hanamura, the conflicted heir had decided to abandon his father’s office and join the rest of the team for dinner, even when Genji had already ordered Meisa and her daughters not to worry about cooking or cleaning for them – and the rest of the group had, of course, agreed with him. 76 proved himself a worthy cook, improvising a precarious fire with twigs and larger branches he collected in the gardens. Even if the night was a bit cold, they all seemed to enjoy the fish outside, sitting on the grass, absorbing the majestic nature of the place surrounding them.

The conversation was vague, to say the very least. The cowboy entertained the group with anecdotes of his time spent as an outlaw while Morrison seemed more interested in remembering the good old pranks and tricks the entire Overwatch team would play on poor McCree during his days as a rookie. The doctor would usually come to his aid, defending him from all jokes and saving him from the stereotyped version of him they all were so fond of.

Laughter encompassed the whole group then, during uneven gaps of time, only to fade away in the wind, each and every single time.

Symmetra finally let them in, as she spoke about her days as a student, remembering her childhood, the city she loved so much, the loved ones she had lost along the way. The monk did not say a word – he knew he couldn’t talk about Genji’s first days in Nepal without affecting Hanzo with his stories and anecdotes, but he also knew he couldn’t remember his own brother without affecting Amelie.

Hanzo didn’t share any stories of his own either, yet the echo of his laughter could be heard freely as it cruised amongst the trees and the sakura blossoms. He seemed relieved, somehow, and the Frenchwoman thought that perhaps the fact that both he and Genji had at least agreed on something had helped dissipate the clouds covering his sight. _It wasn’t working_ – it was cruel and infinitely undermining, yet at least they could both see eye to eye and admit that even if they had tried their best, their reconstructed brotherly bond was just not working.

When dinner was over, they all went back to their assigned rooms. None of them felt brave enough to tempt luck and stay a moment longer if it wasn’t strictly necessary – they had miraculously managed to share a peaceful evening by avoiding the most controversial topics of conversation, but their hot-headed nature was as tenacious as it was merciless, and they all knew it for a fact.

His gentle voice reached out for her in the last portion of the corridor. Soft as a breeze, his words carried more meaning than he let on.

“You are welcome to spend the night in my room, if that’s what you want.” He offered.

The woman turned around and inspected him briefly, allowing her incredulous eyes to see beyond the lines and particular words he had just said. Moving closer, Amelie rested her hands on his shoulders as she whispered in his ear:

“You promised me a fight, archer.”

The petulant smirks adorning their faces were finally speaking the same language, or so it seemed.

He held her hand in his and guided her through the maze of cold stone and ancient wood until they reached their destination. He pushed the door open with one swift movement of his arm and the woman finally stepped into his bedchamber, mesmerized by the grandiloquence of the room – he stared at her with hungry eyes, still standing by the door, as the woman carefully inspected every piece of furniture, every book and every little thing she could lay eyes on. But before she could manage to say a single word his arms, like anchors, were already traveling around her waist; his mouth, darkly content, reaching out for her neck from behind.

She tried to turn around to meet his consuming gaze but he didn’t let her. Strong fingers, like devious claws, were determined to keep her exactly where she was.

When his hands cupped her breasts the Frenchwoman let out a sigh, almost on the verge of giving up entirely. She closed her eyes, trying her best to breathe him in. Only then he shifted her body in his arms, imprisoning her whole being against his chest – he looked so forlorn, she realized almost immediately; consumed by his own fatuous flame yet frozen in place inside the barriers of his skin.

When he took off her training shirt and pushed her towards the bed the woman obliged, still trapped inside the crystalline fantasies of a body that hadn’t felt that way for such a long time. Textures blended together then, mixing the sticky and silky cobwebs of the spider with the scorching touch of the dragon – still she knew the feeling like the back of her hand after imagining and recreating the same old events in the darkest redoubts of her mind. How she longed for him, how she had breathed out his name over and over again.

When he stood completely naked before her, the woman propped herself up with her forearms to admire everything he had to offer.

His anatomy, albeit punished by time and recklessness, was still perfect.

To a fault.

With feverish fingers, the Japanese sniper took on the task of taking off the rest of her clothes. Then he leaned his body over hers, taking in the view, admiring her form with eyes that seemed to know no burdens.

Yet she knew better.

When his lips finally came to devour her mouth he could feel the shape of her half-smile colliding against his teeth. Still, he paid no mind. Then his tongue traveled to her breasts, her belly, her hips, and the woman rejoiced in the feeling as she carefully swam through the sensations, trying her best not to drown.

Yet she still knew better.

When his fingers reached inside of her the woman removed them, bringing his hand near her face to lick herself clean off him and the ghostly hunger still torturing him. Then she kissed his shoulder, ever so tenderly. When he finally made his way inside her the woman seemed to shrink under his touch, too overwhelmed by the moment, torn between her need and his ill-natured, misplaced affection.

His pace was frantic from the start.

But even then, she still knew better.

“Hanzo, stop.” Her voice, detached from the ulterior language of sex, brought him back to reality. “You’re hurting me.”

His erratic movements came to a halt yet he stayed right where he was.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, planting a soft kiss on her lips.

She did not reciprocate it.

When he started to move again, slower this time, gentler than before, the woman ordered him to stop again.

“I thought you wanted this.” He let on, frustrated, as he let go of her.

“I do.” She said, covering her naked form with his bedsheets, “But not like this.”

He covered his face with both his hands, breathing hard through parted lips.

“I’m not a fortune teller, Amelie.” He finally retorted, “You should have been clearer about what you wanted from me instead of luring me on.”

_You disgraced son of a bitch…_

“You dare demand clarity from me… had you been clear enough yourself I wouldn’t be here at all in the first place.” Her bitter laughter ricocheted through every corner of the room, lacerating his ears, rendering him powerless.

And still, she knew better.

“Were you gonna fuck me senseless just because your brother said you weren’t man enough?” Her words, like poison, enveloped his whole form, “He wasn’t talking about your virility, Hanzo.”

He knew. Still, it hurt all the same. He could not bring himself to tell her off for good neither he had the guts to be the man she demanded from him – taking his brother’s words and twisting their meanings he had tried to shelter himself in a brand new hiding place, yet she had found him all the same.

She got out of his bed, picked up her clothes, and got dressed.

“Get your shit together, Shimada.” She said as she exited his room, leaving him alone.

He punched the wall as hard as he could.

He had promised her a fight after all.

.

.

.

**VII – … But at Least the Devil was Honest**

On her way back to her room, the Frenchwoman caught a glimpse of a certain cowboy smoking alone by the balcony. He was staring at his own room, the open windows inviting his eyes in, making him a witness of the heated argument between the ninja and the doctor. Far from their reach, and definitively far from his words, the American man had his naked torso leaning on the railing, the cigar pressed tightly between his lips.

His prosthetic arm was missing.

“You know, if you ask me, I’d tell ya nothing’s really changed for the brothers,” He said, calling her on, without using her name, “Not a single coin in their pockets yet here they are, the great lords of the castle, making everyone around them dance to their tune.”

He turned around and faced her, extending his one good arm for the woman to join him outside.

“Sometimes I wonder what’s gonna happen when Talon finally strikes – perhaps we’ll be too busy killing each other,” He joked, “Can you imagine that? _No, Sombra, hold on – I’m not done fighting my own girlfriend, you wait your turn_.” The smile on his face dissipated quickly, “Or maybe that was their plan all along – for us to kill each other while they do nothin’… perhaps it’s cheaper that way.”

They sat on the cold stone floor with their legs stretched before them and their backs pressed against the railing.

“This whole thing sure feels like a lovers retreat, doesn’t it?” He laughed again, “Days go by with absolutely nothing to do, the view is fantastic… the enemy becomes invisible, we lose track of time, we just don’t know what we’re doin’ anymore.”

The woman placed one of her hands on his knee and nodded her head in silence – his honesty was breathtaking. Every single word leaving his mouth seemed to be colored by an atypical sense of truthfulness, so painfully obvious, so exasperatingly accurate.

“It was too soon.” He sentenced somberly. “For us to come here, for Morrison to assemble a team… But I can understand why they did it – why _we_ did it: some things are so incredibly appealing to the eyes, even if they’re just for show.”

The woman lifted her chin, staring deep into those big brown eyes of him, searching for answers. And the man did not disappoint.

“They sent Hanzo and Genji because they were _ready_ to come back here, and act as _brothers_ … In less than twenty-four hours they had someone else join them because a team was needed for this mission.” He clicked his tongue as the cigar danced between his lips, “We all know they sent someone else so soon because they needed someone to babysit the brothers because, like I said, _we all know_ , deep down inside, that if no-one’s looking and they are left to their own devices, the Shimada name is as good as dead.”

Only then she smiled, “I think the Shimada name is already as good as dead,” Amelie said, “I don’t think the brothers are interested in the possibility of extending their bloodline.”

“Touché.” He took off his cowboy hat and placed it on her head. Then he looked down, “This isn’t working.”

“It’s the second time today I get to hear those words.” She whispered, resting her head on his shoulder, “Only this time, you’re not talking about anyone in particular. None of this is working, Jesse, you’re absolutely right.”

The cowboy let the cigar die.

“Two men, who used to be close, fighting a never-ending war – dividing an entire organization, seeking allies, choosing enemies, breaking bonds, corrupting everyone around them…”

He looked her in the eye and smiled darkly.

“Déjà vu.”

.

.

.

**VIII – Bewildering Nights of Naked Dresses**

He had wronged her. And the archer knew, deep down, that apologizing was never going to be enough to properly repair the damage he had caused.

Cowardice had found him, dressed up in his brother’s words, with his calloused hands twisting their meaning only to achieve nothing, merely an excuse, perhaps – a pathetic attempt at trying to do all those things he couldn’t bring himself to do.

Sleep with the woman you like, free of boundaries and burdens. That sounded a lot like happiness for a man who still didn’t know if it was alright for his lips to smile again.

His atonement would have to talk to her in her own language.

His fingers, before him, were still too proud to knock on her door and beg for forgiveness. So he stilled their needs and infected them with tales of music and madly-in-love composers that, albeit long gone, were still reaching for their muse through the simple theorems of their notes.

He knew the melody would lure her in.

The first night she allowed the gentle sounds to guide her through the building. Up the stairs, past his room, and into the great library. There she found him, sitting by the piano, with his eyes closed and a timid gesture of satisfaction plastered on his face. With her hands still resting on the door, the woman received the notes he created for her with eyes wide open. But her feet remained pinned to the ground.

When the melodies ceased to exist, the archer heard her footsteps as she left the room. Still, he waited, ever so patiently.

The second night replicated the previous one but, this time, she dared cross the threshold. With his eyes still closed, the archer could have sworn those graceful feet of hers were beginning to move along the lines of his own musicality. Yet he didn’t look at her, still too afraid to face the music.

On the third night, the man finally opened his eyes. The woman walked around the room and finally sat by his side. She didn’t dance that night, she merely entertained herself with those prestigious fingertips of his. One note followed the other – the immensity of the silence between them was creating a brand new language.

She performed for him on the fourth night, with arms soaring in the night and legs waging their love and their many, many curses. And then she danced for him again, on the fifth night, only this time she chose to dance to his silence. With his arms folded over his chest, the archer admired each muted figure she had to offer.

On the sixth night, the music returned.

She was sitting by his side, staring out the window. Her mind delighted itself with the monochrome correlations between that man playing music for her and the wonderful and solitary mountain breaking the horizon baring nothing more than its mere presence.

So wonderfully immense, sheltered by that indomitable, eternal ice of his. So alone and still, so full of life, just like some debilitated king.

It took all of him to break the silence that had encompassed them for nearly a week.

“Tell me, Amelie, why do you come here each night?”

He thought she would not answer. But she proved him wrong.

“I come for the silence, the music and the view.” With his eyes still trained on the keys before him, the man couldn’t see her eyes abandoning the mountain and finding him when she said the last portion of her answer. Then she stood up and left the room in silence.

On the seventh night, the woman sat on the piano as she contemplated the faint columns of smoke emanating from his cigarette as his fingers played. She stared at him, deeply. “There are just so many things I don’t know about you…”

He arched one of his eyebrows, eyes still distantly closed.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Only on occasion.” He let out softly. “Do you want me to put it out?”

She laughed briefly, “No, I’m used to it.” The candor in her eyes was beginning to speak about faces and places that were hers no more, “Gerard used to smoke – and Jack too. I know, the super soldier, so healthy and almighty, with his white picket fence looks and everything… the man was a fucking chimney back in the day.” Amelie stood up and leaned her body on the piano, “I definitely didn’t know you could play. You really are full of surprises.”

The melodies finally faded from his fingers.

“Meisa taught me when I was little.” He said, “When my father saw us playing together one day, he asked her to give me proper piano lessons. It quickly became routine for me, each afternoon right after training, I would come here and learn – according to my father, my body would relax but my head would remain focused this way.”

He wasn’t just asking for forgiveness. He was trying to recapture yet another moment of his past that seemed destined to abandon him.

Her hands on his hands. Her mouth, brave, finally asked:

“Are you trying to rebuild an empire?”

“No.” His eyes found hers, staring back at him. “I’m only trying to rebuild my life. Or what’s left of it.”

She cupped his face with her hands and let his head rest on her chest. The man smiled quietly: Genji was right – not only their mother would have liked her; she would have been able to see herself inside that woman.

“Why did you lie to me?”

Hanzo stood up and offered her his hand.

Silence found them once again, as they walked the small path separating his room from the library.

There was something heroic about his actions. He was determined to revisit the place where she had defeated him in order to find his redemption.

He put his hands on the sides of her waist and guided her body towards the bed until the back of her knees felt a slight pressure, pushing her whole body down. “I’ve never been to your room.” He whispered as he slowly began to take off his shirt but even if the musicality of his voice was implying a question, the cold fact behind his simple words was gradually starting to reveal and undress a truth that knew no rhetoric. “One day, you knocked on my door and you walked right in. You said you needed someone to talk to… You sat on my bed, exactly like you did just now. The following day you came back, and you sat on my bed again. This time, I sat next to you,” he went on, his voice soft and silky, far from the roaring thunder she was so used to by now. Mimicking his words, he sat down on his own bed, right next to her, his hands landing on his knees, “You came back some other day, and then again, day after day. One day you used my shower; one day you asked me if you could stay the night…” He grinned at himself, softly, almost peacefully, “I knew you wanted to stay – knew you would have liked to stay many, many times before that night.” Lifting her chin with his fingers, the archer moved closer to her mouth and there he stayed, gravitating near her, “There were some signs, carelessly scattered in between those days and nights, that I should have seen: how you started to dance again, how you began to express the need to share a bed again, to have someone… to belong to someone.” He pressed his forehead against hers and closed his eyes for a brief moment, “Then you took off your clothes, and even when I said no I have to admit: it felt natural. That’s how the sea weathers the stone; after all… that’s how the waters take over the shore. That’s how you began to overcome her, to go back to being the one you were before her.” His hands on her temples, bringing her closer – impossibly closer to him now. “And so I asked myself, time and time again: who am I to stop her from being the one she was supposed to be?”

She took a deep breath, leaning into his touch.

“But the problem is not that you want to be the one you were before her. The problem is that I can’t give you what you had before her.” One of his hands landed on her chest, the other, on his own – “From here to there, Amelie, lies a moment of absolute terror. You want to be the one you were before – I can’t be the one I was before. I can’t afford to be that man again.”

“I’m not trying to be the one I was before.” she whispered, “I’m some sort of hybrid – between the ballerina and the assassin. That’s all there is to me.”

He pulled her close and grinned quietly.

“At least you were able to find yourself between light and darkness.” He said, his eyes closed, his head on her shoulder. “When I was a child, I was afraid of the darkness. I guess, at some point, I became the very thing I feared the most. Still, it took me quite a while to understand: there are no monsters in the dark – only danger.”

“You’re not darkness.” She said.

“I’m not light either.” He sentenced, only to realize that they were exactly the same thing, positioned at the exact same place – using different words, expressing the same thing. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I hurt you. All those days without you made me think that perhaps we should have been braver than this… that night, when the dragon appeared and we kissed… we should have saved that night in our memory. Perhaps we should have treasured it as a milestone in our paths – but nothing more. Perhaps we should have never tried to cross that milestone.”

“Hanzo…”

He laughed lifelessly, with a smile that never reached his eyes.

“Even that milestone ended up with your blood, Amelie.” He remembered. “I can’t shake the feeling that, even when I’m ready to try my best, I’ll end up hurting you all the same. Like that time. Like every single time… still, here we are. I’m beginning to think there’s no keeping us apart.” He suffocated the air in her mouth as he trapped her lips with his, then he stared deeply into her eyes, “That’s why I lied to you. I don’t want you to get hurt – and Talon is out there.”

“You think I can’t do this?”

He shook his head and lifted her chin with his fingers,

“No, I think you’re more than ready to do this. But I fear there won’t be another try for you and me if they get their hands on you.” He was being honest. Heartbreakingly honest.

“I thought I heard you say you wouldn’t let me go back to Talon.”

He had promised her a fight, and he had given her a fight. He had offered her protection, and so he gave his body to hers, as he lay on his bed with her, his arms like houses, keeping her close.

When slumber came, it still felt natural for them. To have each other. To let go of the questioning voices in their heads.

When she fell off the bed in the middle of the night, the archer opened his eyes and got out of bed, eager to help her back up again. But when he saw her there, still asleep on the cold ground, in spite of the loud noise, the bump, the ache in her bones… he couldn’t find the strength to wake her up.

He put on his black robe and walked towards the balcony. And there he stayed, with his arms on the railing and his eyes trained on that distant mountain.

Her hands on his shoulders made him turn around, meet her gaze.

“You were gone.”

The man grinned softly at himself,

“So, falling off the bed didn’t wake you up – but my absence did.”

She smiled too, genuinely, as she rested her chin on his shoulder.

Then her eyes traveled the distance separating their balcony from the one shared by the ninja, the cowboy and the doctor. Even when their blinds were closed, the sounds of their love could be heard quite easily.

It took her a while to understand. The symphony of their passion was loud and strident. What they were doing, the festival of love and lust taking place inside that room… it was nor a feast neither a banquet.

It was a purge.

He noticed her attention was elsewhere, drifting off, venturing the cold outside.

“It pained me, at first, to realize you had others in your life. That meant you didn’t need me anymore.” He whispered in her ear, “But then again, I reminded myself of who I actually was and then I thought: _what a fantastic thing it is, the fact that she doesn’t need me anymore_.” He smiled briefly, before adding, “If there’s one thing you need to know about me, it’s that I’m a very possessive man.”

When he heard her laughter once again he turned around, placing his arms on the sides of her waist.

“I like you.”

“But…” She said, her hands reaching out to his chest.

“No buts. I just do.” Hanzo confessed. “I like you.”

She leaned in closer to kiss him, but the man put both his hands on her shoulders, keeping her in place.

“This I’ll say, I’ll say for the first and last time, Amelie.” He sentenced, “You can do better than this – you can find someone better than me. You know that, right?”

She nodded.

But kissed him all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm changing the rating on this one just to be cautious.


	7. Six Simple Rules Of Sex Etiquette We Are Too Afraid To Talk About

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The child is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how’s everyone doing? Fine, I hope. Just a couple things about this chapter that I think are worth mentioning before you guys read it: the first one is that all the events in this chapter happen in just one night, hence the tense switches. We got one very, very long scene with Hanzo and Amelie and, simultaneously (and written in present tense), two other scenes involving different characters. Just keep in mind that it’s all happening at the same time. Secondly, I know the title for this chapter might be a tad bit too suggestive, but know that this is not a collection of smutty scenes: I wanted to focus on sex, not as a physical activity per se but as an act of intimate socialization. Hope it shows.
> 
> Also, I’ve added some warnings for this chapter and there’s a flashback, in the third section (or “Rule #3”) with very sensitive content. 
> 
> Feedback, as always, is greatly appreciated.  
> Till next time!

Variations on a Theme

Act VII

**Six Simple Rules Of Sex Etiquette We Are Too Afraid To Talk About**

________________________________________

_“Thus: the Other’s body’s meaningful.”_

Jean Paul Sartre

________________________________________

**Rule N° 1**

**During roleplay, never lose sight of who you are and who you are with.**

For the very first time, waking up together didn’t feel strange or awkward. She didn’t feel the need to exit his room before others could find out that they had spent the night together and, much to her surprise, Hanzo didn’t find it weird for her to linger a while longer as the blinds began to let some light in.

He had gone the distance, they knew, opening up and letting her know that there was, indeed, something between them.

“I like you” - such simple words, albeit distant from expressing a certain feeling or a given emotion, had been enough for the both of them to understand that something had already changed. His mouth had made sure of that.

His quiet laughter made her see that, this time, he wasn’t going to scold her for walking around the room naked. Far from that, the archer sat up in his bed and placed his hands at the back of his head as he watched her move around - “What’s so funny?” She asked, barely looking over her shoulder, yet the man shrugged innocently before answering:

“All your bruises, what are you going to tell them when they see them?”

He laughed louder than before and she smiled as well, even when the gesture was simply trying to mock his own sense of humor.

“They shouldn’t see any of these bruises,” she retorted, “Not if I keep my clothes on. Besides, I don’t think they will take me seriously once I tell them I fell off the bed, don’t you agree?”

As the archer nodded his head in silence, his sleepy eyes watched her figure disappear behind the bathroom door. Such sense of familiarity, he knew, was something he was going to have to get used to. Contemplating life from the comfort of his bed, Hanzo quieted the voices inside his head, the ones still questioning the nature of whatever future they could build together - the ones still trying to remind him of the fact that they wanted different things: he was determined to stay in Hanamura and write a different story for the place he still loved so much but Amelie wanted to right her wrongs and, in her mind, her only chance to ever do that was to stay with Overwatch.

Her body found him again, as he struggled relentlessly against the many questions plaguing his sanity. Amelie joined him on the bed again, his arms surrounding her belly and trapping her against his warm chest. He kissed her softly on her temple and the woman closed her eyes - Sundays were meant to bring that state of laziness, after all.

He tried his best to fall back asleep but the task quickly became pointless and repetitive. So he stayed right where he was, as still as humanly possible, sheltering her body and protecting her dreams.

When she woke up, he was gone.

Day was slowly giving way to night. The birds were no longer singing their tunes and the sun had already kissed the Earth goodbye. So she got out of bed, covered her body with his silky, black robe and stepped out into the balcony, her forearms landing gracefully on the railing. Contemplating the traditional landscape of buildings and gardens before her, her mind drifted off for a while. His bare foot tapped soundlessly against the wood - such delicacy, immensely his, yet foreign inside a man so full of rage and violence.

She craned her neck, slightly, when his frame trapped hers from behind. Right before her eyes, resting now on the railing, there was a large, rectangular green box.

“Open it.”

Her hands explored the smooth surface - soft to the touch, appealing to the eyes; emerald with a golden ribbon adorning the edges. The noble material inside the container was equally breathtaking - black leather. The Frenchwoman held the coat between her hands, admiring its beauty. It was stunning. It was a testament to everlasting fashion. It was irrevocably expensive.

“I can’t accept it,” she said, “Not even if you’re trying to buy my forgiveness, Hanzo.”

He laughed, the echo of the sound barely brushing against her earlobe.

“I’m not.” He assured.

“How could you?” Amelie said as she finally shifted inside his arms, eager to face him, “You never even said _I’m sorry_.” It was pointless, she knew, his mouth was never going to release those words.

“You ruined your coat when you entered this place for the first time,” He said, “The least I can do for you is,”

“You shouldn’t waste your money like this,” Amelie interrupted him, her eyes were gravely serious, “I chose to ruin that coat, it was my decision - if you truly want to establish yourself in here, you should mind your resources more carefully.”

He kissed her then, smiling against her lips. Her surprised eyes were beginning to question such a reaction.

“I know we said our mother would have liked you, but when you say such things… it gives me reason to believe our father would have liked you as well.”

They agreed on having dinner outside that very same night. Partially because the need to get away from the manufactured peace of Hanamura was beginning to asphyxiate them, and partially because both snipers were feeling the need to really be alone spreading rapidly through every fiber of their beings. Hanzo chose a small restaurant a few blocks away from Shimada Castle, a petite, reserved habitat for lovers with less than a dozen tables and even fewer customers.

With eyes wide open, the archer focused his attention on the beautiful woman laughing at his jokes - the one who had been through hell but was now back, the one he had let in. There it was, the final panoptic of colors in her palette, all displayed before him for his eyes to see.

She was truly unique.

Yet a different color began to stain the bright kaleidoscope. A richer, deeper shade of red. A scream of agonizing crimson.

It happened right after dinner, on their way back to Hanamura. Her long legs stopped their march in front of that place: a small redoubt, carelessly hidden between buildings, shamelessly exposing their sins. He had been there many times before - the clan and its negotiations, simple vices and dark, twisted pacts signed by sweat and blood - but her… such an elegant woman, what she was thinking, standing motionless in front of that door? Ushering him to her side? Embellished in the faint glow and mesmerized - with her lips about to part and her eyes, in trance, wandering everywhere. Already crossing the frontier. Already walking through that door.

“Do you really want to go there?” He asked, with his hand on her shoulder, even when the expression written all over her face had already answered for her.

A nightclub.

As the bodies danced around them, all pure and bare in their rhetorical sense of exposition, all blessed and lost, the snipers sat at a small table. He was nervous, she could tell by his uneven breathing, his sweaty palms, his obvious unease. With a soft hand landing on his knee, the woman tried to make him feel that she was still there with him, albeit a big gone already. Her thirsty throat, thriving.

Many dancers came to greet him with a rhythmically incorrect sense of education - for the man they had known so long ago was now nowhere to be found inside those dark eyes of his. Was he really back? Was he really that man? The younger dancers, however, still enraptured by the eternal carnival of artificial carnality, seemed to pay no mind to the beautiful strangers watching the show. Silk and candlelight, mellow melodies and the intrepid smell of such sweet poisons.

He was grateful for them, he really was. Their oblivion was refreshing.

“Could you buy me a lap dance?”

“What?” He asked, perplexed - perhaps he had misheard.

“I asked _could you buy me a lap dance_?” She leaned back in the chair, “I want to know why it’s just so fascinating, you know? Why do they like it so much? Such a cheap transgression, dear… I’d love to have a little taste.”

When he finally obliged he saw how her eyes were trying to dissect that poor woman. As the anonymous shape danced before her like a flame that’s more than willing to endure the coldest of nights, Amelie’s vision began to gradually tear her apart - one limb at a time, that nameless body was now the object of her apprehensive studies.

He watched until his eyes could no longer discern between both women.

She had successfully destroyed the Other’s real identity - she had captivated the dancer with her eyes, had molded that shape with nothing but the capricious wishes of her mind. When the song ended Amelie smiled, satisfied - then she grabbed him by the hand and dragged him out of that godforsaken place, and back into the streets. She slammed his back against the nearest wall and kissed him fiercely - almost beastly. It took all of him to stop her before they ended up fucking in the street - a kind of strength he didn’t know he possessed.

They somehow made it back to Hanamura that night. Miraculously. Covered in sweat. Burning whitely in a different kind of fever.

She locked them up in his room, forced him to sit down on a chair she had dragged to the center of the place, and commanded him to face her as she moved, just a few feet away from his wide-eyed gaze. But the movements she had to offer, the man promptly realized, had little to do with those of a true ballerina - the rhythm, though deprived of all melody, seemed also emptied of all possible musicality. The cadence, painstakingly slow, was only giving way to nearly spasmodic moves, like reflects of some sort of an electrical impulse Hanzo could not fully understand. The dance, finally, had been broken and divided into numerous fragments, all of them meaningless and lacking the required flow that must always accompany the body.

Was she nervous, he pondered, his eyes still unable to forsake her spastic dance.

Was she doubting herself, was she melting inside her own bonfire of unspoken desires - it all just seemed so unlike her.

She turned her back on him and began to undress. Such an image, Hanzo wondered, would surely demand some delightful adventures from him. But then she stopped. Cold and inconclusive, slowly receding back to the depths of her own mind. He looked at her, as he stood up and walked around the naked woman.

Her beautiful face, slovenly yet forlorn. Furiously, she tried to push him back to the place where he belonged. That lonely chair, like a throne she had procured just for him.

He obliged, dubitative but calm. Then the woman tried to resume her shattered dance by summoning shadows and shades - she made them all dance in perfect synchronicity and they climbed every wall until the obscure waltz began to look like an ancient ritual. She was getting ready to soar, he understood. With her body approaching his and her unexpected pauses breathing life into her spiritless bones, the man finally reached out and tried to touch her, his hands landing on her hips.

But try as he might, his fingers could not command her muscles. And she could just not obey.  

When he looked into her eyes he saw something had broken, yet the chrysalis enveloping her form was still intact.

He was not going to see any butterflies fly that night.

He held her in his arms, then, until the music faded.

________________________________________

**Rule N° 2**

**You can’t get what you don’t ask for.**

He sees the stream of light. As a matter of fact, he is fully familiarized with its behavioral movements by now. He has seen it many, many times.

It is already etched in his memory.

At first, the pattern is whimsical. Then it begins to flow in a more geometric fashion, spiraling in a peculiar neon effervescence. Then it bursts into black, and fades away.

It's always the same.

Whimsical, geometric - gone.

The device has a peculiar shape - it weights lightly on the palm of his hand for a while, until the man lets it rest on the table. It emanates a certain luminosity. Weirdly enough, its owner seems to travel between shadows.

That’s her name, after all, he ponders. She’s only a shadow.

“Hey, Joel,” she says, and she becomes visible. She walks towards the kitchen counter with a poise and a cadence that can only belong to her. And he stares, for as long as he manages, though the look in his eyes doesn’t show the slightest sign of surprise or bewilderment.

“I told you, that’s not my name.”

He knows that, for her, identity is a joke. Still, it bothers him, the fact that she seems unable to call him by his name.

_He wants others to realize him._

“How long have you been lurkin’ in here?” He wants to know, “How many times, Sombra?”

She doesn’t answer. Not directly, not with words. She smiles and shrugs, she toys with him, tries to get on his nerves. But it doesn’t work, she sees it clearly. Something’s changing inside that man.

He’s tired. Possibly bored to death. She wishes there was room for surprising thoughts to shake her once again though, sadly, there isn’t.

“You still playin’ boyfriend and girlfriend, Joel?”

The name again. That’s not him.

_He wants others to realize him._

They have met many times in the past. At first, they were just rivals, people positioned in distant places, each of them helping balance the scales for two different sides of the same conflict to exist. But then the encounters became repetitive - he was an outlaw back then, and she was trying hard to fit in amongst villains. Until Christmas, two years ago.

He was about to cross the delicate line that separates drunk from intoxicated. All alone, leaning his body on the bar, as if trying to force gravity to stay put. She was there, the hand behind his drinks, watching him from afar, ready to kill the distance.

They ended up spending the night together, but their versions of that night differ greatly.

According to her, she was just feeling lonely that night. McCree affirms that he’s not stupid enough to believe in her bullshit - she was on a mission that night, tracking him, spying on him. Eventually, they agreed on an ultimate version of the story - a plausible truth placed somewhere in between their personal truths: she was feeling lonely, but she was also spying on him. That unified version has always seemed to satisfy their cravings - her lack of real company, and his thirst for recognition.

She still laughs every time he brings that up. He knows her truth is the closest approximation to what actually happened that Christmas - still she plays along. How thoughtful…

“You still haven’t answered me, Joel - are you still playing boyfriend and girlfriend?”

He knows her game. Knows where she’s willing to go. Still, he doesn’t answer.

“I told you, my name’s not Joel.”

She smirks, then _boops_ the tip of his nose.

“And I told you that a name is just a name.”

“For you, maybe.” He fights back, “Maybe for you, there’s no difference between Sombra and Olivia,” Her eyes are open wide now, but she suppresses the shock of the surprise with a nonchalant smile, “Yes, it’s no longer a secret, y’know?” She nods, seemingly unpreoccupied. “To me, it’s just not the same… being Jesse or being Joel,”

“Why?”

He can’t blame her ignorance. They never really talked about themselves.

He hesitates; doesn’t really know if he’s ready to share such an intimate secret with her of all people. But his mouth betrays him - or is it his gut?

“Jesse McCree is his mother’s son.” Her mouth is agape, she doesn’t really know what to say, “I’m sure she wouldn’t know this Joel guy you’re always talkin’ ‘bout.” For a moment she lets the sugar coming out of his mouth envelop her almost completely, yet he’s learnt a lot from her, and he’s ready to let it show: “I wonder why you can’t discern between Sombra and Olivia anymore; perhaps Sombra is just that: a literal shadow that creeps up on people, tryin’ to get as close to them as possible but never quite reachin’ out to them…. or maybe Sombra is a lot less literal than that, and you use it as a metaphor to hide the fact that your current self is just the shadow of the one you were before.”

His words hurt, yet she sees her own doing behind them. Their time together has always been brief, but it seems her teachings have taken root inside the cowboy. She’s proud - it’s only natural for them to act similarly after all: they’re very much alike - they follow others, trying to make them see that they are there, that they exist… they want to blend in, they want to belong - but they stay in groups that don’t seem to represent who they truly are because they cannot seem to be able to breathe without others.

Standing on opposite sides of the same old war - but they both know, there’s no need to voice it out: he’s not Romeo, and she’s not Juliet.

Now it’s his turn to smile.

“Literal… metaphors… you really do have a knack for writing, Joel.” She jokes, “That article of yours was really good, you know? You should be a writer.” Again the name, only this time, it feels innocuous. “I call you Joel because I don’t want him to know it’s you I’m talking about. You’re welcome.”

He tips his hat, politely. They made a promise never to speak about that man - but he doesn’t mind her breaking it from time to time.

Time to return pleasantries...

“Several days ago, there was an issue regarding Symmetra’s sentry turrets - they managed to register activity, but there was no-one showing in the cameras,” he began, “I told them it was probably a bird, or a cat - a big, black cat… but then Genji said it could be you, you should’ve seen their faces.”

“I know. It was Amelie.” Of course, she knew.

She moves closer to him and he watches, as her fingers produce some sort of screen. She knows everything - has recorded entire conversations. She knows who’s there, since when and each of the roles they’re supposed to play… But it doesn’t stop there.

“She’s feeling a little bit lonely, Jesse,” She says, “And that’s unforgivable - I mean, she has two boyfriends after all, how can she feel lonely?”

The live feed shows Angela. The good doctor is walking around Hanamura, alone indeed, yet her feet seem determined to find that companion she’s been missing. It alarms him, although he has known it all along. Sombra is staring, one of her eyebrows is raised curiously.

They both know where Angela is going.

“Let’s blame this one on Genji,” she offers, “He should be here, keeping you company. What sort of man leaves both his boyfriend and his girlfriend _unattended_ like this? He should have stayed here, cowboy - if he had, you wouldn’t be here with me now, and Angela wouldn’t be walking towards Morrison’s room.” Her arm snakes around his neck, the man is hypnotized by the images, “You came here looking for him, right? But every Sunday night, ever since you got here, it’s always the same old story: the ninja disappears – doesn’t he? Do you even know where he is?”

He shakes his head but the gesture seems more mechanical than real. He’s long gone, his mind walking down the corridor, right beside the good doctor.

He sees her hesitate before his door - but a part of him wishes she would just knock, and put an end to everything.

Sombra sees the pain in those eyes of his - this is not what she came here for, she knows. As a matter of fact, running into him wasn’t part of her agenda. But it is welcomed, anyways. It always is. The image disappears as she closes the palm of her hand; when she opens it again, instead, there’s a list of names - all of their names, the agents currently posted in Hanamura.

The thought crosses his mind but fades rapidly: perhaps he’s been asking all the wrong questions but even so, he just doesn’t want to know.

“You should leave before they see you.” He suggests, with a voice that can’t be bothered.

She looks his way, the purple light of her ethereal screen reflected on her face.

“Do you want me to go?”

He doesn’t, they both are sure of that. He enjoys her company just as much as she enjoys his. Yet he knows, if they were to find out about her, he just couldn’t explain her presence there - a Talon agent, gathering intel on them, and one of their own knowing - and not doing anything about it.

When her body starts to vanish right before his eyes the man reaches out to her, preventing her from leaving. If she could just stay a while longer…

She says she knows just the place. An old building at the other side of the garden, abandoned and unused.

An eerie room with no windows. Just a bed, a lamp and a mirror. And blood stains. Dried and faded but still struggling to be remembered, across time and oblivion.

They walk towards their new destination knowing what they’re going to do. Urgent as always, their session shall be thrilling and dangerous, exactly like their own nature. As they walk across Hanamura the cool night breeze caresses his face and makes him realize that she’s not there with him - or is she? It’s hard to trust her, he knows, but still, he hopes for the hacker to be really there, walking side by side, sheltered by invisibility, safe from harm.

Every step is laborious and every thought is plagued by doubts - is she really there, walking right beside him?

His mind rests when they finally reach the building - she makes herself visible again and the man breathes, finally acknowledging his faith. Their love, as expected, is fast and overwhelming. Intoxicating and ill-natured.

“I noticed you listed all our names - he knows exactly who is here,” he whispers in her ear as her back arches against the mattress and her hips move up, trying to replicate the rhythm of his body, “But I also noticed my name was not on that list.”

She closes her eyes and breathes through parted lips - she won’t ruin the moment, she won’t tell him why he’s worth protecting, why she’s been trying so hard to keep him out of the conflict.

She wants to save herself the heartache - wants to avoid the moment when she tells him to just leave it all behind and run away together and he says no.

She feels like crying but still, she can’t just let him see her in such a state. So she vanishes in his arms and the man, with his eyes closed, doesn’t even realize.

_He doesn’t realize her. He doesn’t._

When he opens his eyes he sees himself in the mirror - fucking nothing but air, holding on to someone who’s just not there. Only she is. He still feels her in his arms, she’s still there, with him.

He looks away, can’t stand the image of a man so all alone, so desperate, so needy - so damn incomplete.

_He wants others to realize him._

He’s too afraid to look, but then her fingers, visible, guide his chin upwards and force his eyes to take a good look in that mirror - perhaps he’s not so all alone after all yet the feeling is persistent. The void, still consumes him.

When their session comes to an end the woman dresses up again but he lingers there, on the floor, naked and exposed, for a while longer. She gets on one knee, kisses him gently on the lips and whispers,

“When he comes - and he _will_ come - don’t even try to fight him, Jesse.”

Finally, his name.

_He wants others to realize him._

“When he comes, you just run your ass off.” She pleads, as her shape disappears right before his eyes.

Now he knows he’s all alone.

Now he knows she won’t be back.

________________________________________

**Rule N° 3**

**If you’re too afraid of the answer, don’t ask.**

He put his hands at the sides of her waist and forced her to sit on his lap - and there she stayed, for a while, nuzzling her face against his chest, seeking warmth and company. The delusions in her head had backfired once again. And he noticed, she could see the worry in his eyes.

“What happened?” Hanzo asked, his hands rubbing her back gently. But his ministrations only seemed to help her retreat further away from him as the woman curled up her legs against her stomach, her hands now like claws, capturing his neck.

It was confusing, even frustrating for him - but intimacy seemed to come with a price for people like them. Sex was supposed to be simple after all - a mechanical act of the body, fulfilling a primary, basal need. If feelings were involved, then the mechanical aspects of the activity were supposed to convey and acquire a whole new meaning - more spiritual than carnal, more devoted than urgent.

They could check every item on that list and still, intimacy would show its weakest face to them.

She moved upon him, but it wasn’t his body what she was seeking the most. Perhaps an understanding, a pact of sorts. She asked him about his first sexual experience - the question seemed weird at first for the man, still unable to undress the thoughts raging inside her head.

“It was quick, awkward and not memorable in the slightest,” Hanzo said, visibly uncomfortable.

Amelie smiled timidly, the color finally returning to her face, “Isn’t that everyone’s answer?” When she laughed his lips remained a tight line that seemed to know no comfort: her assumption was true, his description had covered the truth for most people living in the world yet his first sexual experience had been different - and the words he had chosen to describe it did not exactly portray what had actually happened that night.

It had been quick, awkward and not memorable in the slightest – that much was true. But it had also been cruel, traumatic and life-changing.

The archer let go of her, stood up, and made his way to the balcony. And there he stayed, sitting on the cold stone floor, his eyes trained on the unreachable horizon stretching itself before his numbed eyes. She was only trying to get to know him; she was only trying to relate, yet the part of his past that she had summoned was denser and darker than what she had in mind.

She joined him outside, embracing him from behind and resting her chin on his shoulder.

“I’ve always assumed that, in case things between us progressed, there would come a moment for me to tell you about that night,” He whispered, his eyes still unreachable. “I’m not sure this is the right moment.”

In the last hours they had spent together, she had witnessed the existence of a softer, lighter Hanzo. The story of the girl from the ramen shop had returned also, making her think that even if born and raised inside the clan, perhaps the archer had experienced love during his youth, and even the carnality of early desires. Perhaps Genji’s words every time he would say that his brother had lacked a sentimental education were nothing but the perception of the Sparrow’s own struggle - he had been a playboy back in the day, perhaps the only one with a limited version of affection had always been him.

“Hanzo, I can understand,” she said, “Growing up inside the clan, I mean… if your father or the elders paid for you to have your first sexual experience… that’s fine, I understand.”

He looked over his shoulder and squeezed her hands - he was grateful and somewhat relieved to know that she seemed able to understand the peculiarities that had plagued his life back then but he couldn’t hide the fact that the sole idea of telling her about that night was enough to freeze the blood running through his veins.

He feared his own story. Feared her reaction.

He feared her rejection.

“So your first time wasn’t some romantic escapade from your adolescence, then. No forbidden romance, no…”

He shook his head, interrupting her. “Everything I now know about sex, I had to learn on my own.” The archer said, “My father never really talked to me during my teenage years - least of all about sex, and the clan elders didn’t help me much either since they only saw sex as a means to an end.”

She hesitated briefly before asking, “A means to an end?”

“Reproduction.” He clarified somberly. “And, in my case, in particular, _reproduction_ only meant to ensure the future of the clan with a new heir.” Hanzo turned around, his eyebrows knitted together, “A _male_ heir… anyways, as my brother and I grew up, there came a point when Genji began to talk to me about sex, or at least he would try to, but I was always reticent and would close off every time my brother would try to pick up the subject – deep down I felt like I was the one supposed to give advice to my younger brother, not the other way around.”

“It makes sense,” Amelie said, “Still you shouldn’t feel embarrassed by your own experience. I’m sure the elders were pressuring you some way or another - and you were young. You’ve been through a lot, Hanzo - don’t let that mortify you.”

“You really don’t know.” He said, “You have no clue…”

“Then tell me,” Amelie said, but unlike her previous question, only moments ago, when she had asked him about his first sexual experience, this time her voice was softer, darker. With narrowed eyes, Hanzo noticed the tremor in her diction, exposing a fear she could no longer hide, still he knew that woman was not going to stop - he had opened all his gates for her, sooner or later she was going to undress each and every single piece conforming his existence, the ones he was most proud of, and the ones he could not afford to face.

He hesitated for a moment but eventually decided it would be best to just let her in for good, and let her make her own decision – choose him in spite of the beast he carried inside, or simply run away, and forget all about him.

“Ever since I can remember, the elders always told me about this ritual, this coming of age ritual for future heirs. They said my father had been through it, and his father had, too.” He said with his hands curled up into furious fists, resting on his lap, “They kept mentioning something about my 14th birthday, they all said it was meant to be the time when I would finally become a man - a worthy leader for the clan.” His eyes, drenched in distant, painful memories, were lost in the unwanted evocation. “I was rather naive back then, I honestly didn’t understand what they wanted from me, what else I was supposed to do: I was working hard, training my best every single day, I listened to everything they had to say, followed their teachings - I was the heir’s firstborn…”

The woman contemplated him in silence, paying attention to his words, suppressing her fears.

“They never said anything about this ritual - nothing too specific. But as my 14th birthday approached, nothing really happened. I saw no preparations, they seemed to simply… not care. So my birthday finally came, I turned 14 and when the celebration was over, I simply went to sleep thinking this ritual was just a story the elders had used to try to scare me.”

Only it wasn’t.

Shaky fingers were holding on to her hands now, his sweaty palms revealing the nightmare.

“I was sitting on my bed that night, tired… but I wanted to check each birthday present one more time, when he came knocking on my door.”

_Shimada Sojiro._

His father.

The leader of the Shimada Clan.

_The Father’s eyes, like dark pools of knowledge, bore into the son as if trying to find the man still sleeping in his incipient existence and the child marvels, delighted by the image of that unbreakable man. The Father doesn’t say much but beckons the child and Hanzo obeys, almost mesmerized by him._

_His father always had that impact on him._

_They walk through the gardens in silence, the Father’s hand is placed firmly on his child’s back, guiding him forwards. But when their march comes to a sudden halt in front of a door the child has never crossed before, the Father, once more, chooses silence over words._

_As the child disappears behind the door, the Father finally whispers: he shall be waiting for him on the other side and the child knows - he just knows it in his heart that the Father is not offering him his support, his words only mean one thing: I’m not here to help you, son. I’m here because it’s my duty - I’m here to make sure you won’t try to run away._

_But running away is not an option, the child soon realizes. The room has no windows, and his father is waiting on the other side of the door._

_The child feels trapped. Knows he is trapped._

_There’s a woman waiting for him on the bed. Naked. Now he understands what he’s supposed to do - but he still doesn’t have the required skills to complete this particular task and his mind trips in anticipation, realizing that he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to be anticipating._

_Most kids his age were into porn - hiding magazines and articles under their beds. But he didn’t have the time nor the interest: his mind is someplace else, his desire is only ruled by the strict discipline of the clan._

_There was one time, the child remembers instantly, when he felt brave enough and finally decided to cross Hanamura’s main gate to buy himself a dirty magazine - but when one of his tutors found it, he was severely reprimanded. They said he was way too young for that kind of stuff; a true leader was not supposed to dedicate his time to such trivial activities._

_They burnt the magazine right before his eyes. They slapped him hard across the face._

_That had happened only three months ago - and so the child now asks himself: what could possibly change in such a short period of time? What made them think he was ready now?_

_The child stands petrified, his eyes unable to look forward. He feels shame, and a part of him wants to giggle - but he suppresses it, for he knows he’s a Shimada._

_The woman waits - it’s clear she doesn’t want to pressure the child. But she also knows that, sooner or later, she’s going to have to if the kid doesn’t find a way to man up himself but the child surprises her, as he finally steps forward and looks at her - she’s young, her smile is shy but he can tell she’s experienced and that notion helps him find some peace of mind: he has heard a lot about sexually transmitted diseases and unwanted pregnancy but he still doesn’t have a clue how to avoid those things - at least she knows, he thinks, she must know._

_The first thought that crosses his mind is that she really is an attractive woman. She must be in her late twenties, perhaps her early thirties; it’s hard to tell. Then his thoughts are set adrift, and the child thinks that it’s a good thing that she’s already naked; he wouldn’t exactly know how to undress a woman, where to start - bras seem really troublesome, he thinks…_

_He feels an urge he cannot describe. Not with words. He feels a part of him is about to leave his body - a weird sensation, around his belly: it’s warm. It’s nearly suffocating._

_His eyes are unable to look away now, as she moves around him, and her breasts dance before him and her legs - long, almost endless… Once again he feels like giggling and once again he represses it, the child in him that fights back the man - his father is waiting for him outside, she feels ready, her breasts are dancing, she smiles so beautifully and the child suddenly realizes: he’s holding his breath - he’s supposed to breathe._

_So he breathes. He takes a mouthful of air and his head is suddenly spinning. He’s not breathing. He’s hyperventilating. The man in him, awakening from its stupor and its lethargy, begins to overcome the child: stupid brat, get it together…_

_He takes off his clothes, albeit clumsily, responding to an instinct he didn’t know he possessed. But he can’t afford to look at his erection - she’s staring, and even though it feels as if things are progressing as they should, he still feels embarrassed. His own masculinity is making him blush._

_The child finally reaches out and touches the woman - he’s not entirely sure what his next move should be but a part of him is eager to find out. This thirst, this hunger - he doesn’t know where they came from and he’s not even sure if they can be extinguished._

_From that point on, everything happens so indescribably fast that his mind and his body find it difficult to keep up. It’s like becoming one with someone else implies a higher level of concentration, a different type of preparation that has nothing to do with staying sharp and focused: she’s not his enemy, she’s one with him now. The notion, fresh and unparalleled, strikes him._

_The way she moves, the sounds she makes - is his father listening? Is she supposed to make such lewd noises? Is she having a good time? Is he doing fine?_

_Something is changing, he senses it coming for him, overwhelming him._

_When his orgasm surprises him the child tries to capture it but he soon realizes that it’s not meant to last: it vanishes quickly, rendering him almost powerless - his limbs seem to have a mind of their own but this heat is different, it consumes all of his energy; his release is messy and he asks for her forgiveness, his cheeks turn a bright red and he feels embarrassed, once again._

_He can see that she hasn’t experienced what he has and begins to feel like an amateur lover - he knows he’s not a selfish lover, or at least he knows he doesn’t want to be a selfish lover, yet the child doesn’t really know what to do to extend what he has felt only seconds ago, he doesn’t know what to do to make her feel it too - his mind reels: is it over already? Was he good at it? Is she going to spend the rest of the night with him?_

_When the Father knocks on the door, all the questions inside the child’s mind seem to disappear. The Father calls out to him and the child leaves the bed and dresses up as fast as he can. Before approaching the door, the child looks over his shoulder and takes one good look at the woman - god, she truly is beautiful. The child tells her to cover her body, he doesn’t want his father to see her naked. Then the child wonders if he should clean up, arrange the sheets or perhaps run his fingers through his hair - he doesn’t want his father to see him like this, doesn’t want his father to see the mess he has just created._

_But the Father doesn’t enter the room._

“When I opened the door he didn’t ask me if I was okay, if I had enjoyed it,” Hanzo remembered, “He said that I was a man now because my body had been awakened. I thought the ritual was over, but it wasn’t.”

_The Father says it’s time for the child’s mind to wake up as well but the child doesn’t really get it. The Father kneels down before his confused son and offers him a sword - it’s not just any sword, the child promptly realizes: this is a much heavier weapon than the sword he uses to train every day also, it’s significantly larger than the one he usually gets to use during the clan’s missions and assignments, the dragon figure that’s carved into the sharp blade is unmistakable: this is his Father’s sword._

_The child accepts the offer, although he’s not exactly sure why his predecessor is presenting him with such an honor. The blade is sharp, it truly belongs to its master - the beauty of the symbolism is hard to ignore._

“He ordered me to kill the woman,” The archer whispered, the throaty words nearly inaudible, “He said something about difficulties - said that my body was ready, but my mind was not. If I could kill the woman that had just given me so much pleasure, if I could overcome all the voices in my head telling me not to, then I would be the leader the clan deserved.”

_The child is petrified. He can’t hear the Father’s exact words - he sees the Father’s mouth moving, phonemes and ideas are exiting the barrier of his lips but the child’s mind is numbed by the uncanny, hellacious request. There’s a fog clouding his vision: the child does not understand._

_The child thinks about his mother. He struggles as his mind collects a million images of his parents - happy, together, and unmistakably enamored. The Father has taught them - him and his younger brother - that women are the most precious creatures: they are supposed to be cherished, respected, worshipped. In the child’s mind, contradiction arises._

_Overwhelmed and almost broken-hearted, the child shakes his head vehemently: he won’t do it, he’s decided not to do it and, for a brief moment, his mind wonders whether saying no to such a macabre request was the real test: he has always listened very carefully to the Father’s teachings, maybe the man is simply trying to make sure that the child has been paying attention to every word he said._

_When the Father pushes the child slightly against the door, deposits the sword in his small, sweaty hands and forces him to go back inside that room, the child suddenly understands that his father is actually expecting him to kill the woman. Enough wishful thinking. Panicking, the child tries to remember what his father had just told him but his mind is empty, he can only collect fragmented pieces of information scattered carelessly here and there. He lacks coherence, he can’t really move. He closes his eyes and tries his best to capture his father’s words but he doesn’t seem able to see beyond his father’s lips as they move soundlessly before him._

_Father says something regarding difficulties._

_He searches within, for he knows he’s more than capable of joining the dots. He’s been training all his life for this - to be able to see the whole picture. The child thinks, yet his conclusion is not enough to mend the bruise in his heart. His intelligible thoughts, even if perfectly logical, are not enough to mitigate the pain in his chest._

_He sees it clearly now. The child understands: he has killed many people before this night and he knows there’s still a lot of blood he shall spill, in time. But the brutal lesson he’s supposed to learn tonight is trying to make him see that there shall be times when killing someone won’t be simple. The child understands. He suddenly does._

_His precarious experience has always told him that taking a life is not right, but as long as the clan orders it, it is his duty. So the child’s hands always move gracefully and swiftly - he’s quick and clean, that’s how they trained him, that’s how they taught him. Guilt does not reach the child - it never does. Remorse doesn’t seem to touch him either. That’s what the clan has taught him: as long as there’s a reason, taking a life is fully justified._

_But the child fails to see the justification for this kill._

_He understands what his father is trying to do, he knows his father is trying to show him that, sometimes, his heart and his mind will fight in contradiction. Still, it is not enough for the child to kill the woman._

_When the Father finally closes the door, the same feeling invades the child: he is trapped, in a room without windows, with his father waiting on the other side of the door. His father is not there to help him. He won’t be able to leave the room until that woman is dead. The child feels sick - nauseated. There are questions in his head he has never asked himself before: what if that woman is someone’s daughter? Someone’s wife? Someone’s mother?_

_All those people he has killed before, they were nothing but irrelevant names on a blacklist. They had no real connection to the world, he thinks. They were just beings of evil that the clan needed to purge. This is the first time, the child notices, that he’s actually able to see his victim as a human being._

_The feeling is not pleasant._

_The feeling is confusing._

_The sword is heavy against his skin but suddenly the child’s mind sees a ray of hope: perhaps the woman knows what’s going to happen. Perhaps she has agreed to this, like some sort of ritualistic sacrifice - he’s not entirely sure if that alone is enough to end her life but at least he feels that if she’s been offered an honorable death then his hands will gladly do it. He finds solace in that thought, or at least he tries to._

_But when he finally steps into the room and the woman sees the weapon resting in his hands, the fear in her eyes makes it evident: she doesn’t know that the child is about to kill her. She’s not ready to die, she doesn’t want to die._

_Enough wishful thinking._

_The child cannot give her an honorable death._

_The child doesn’t want to do it, but the woman fights back. She grabs him by the wrists, desperately, even when she knows she has nowhere to run. The child is frightened, he knows he’s got to defend himself but he doesn’t want to hurt the woman. Until she trips and she falls, her head colliding against the mirror. Shards of glass cut his forearms, and he feels them prickling on his feet._

_It was an accident. The child hasn’t even pushed her, the woman simply tripped and fell._

_The child gets on one knee, her blood stains his skin. She’s not breathing. The child cries, inconsolably, even if he didn’t kill her it’s hard to fight the guilt consuming him. He tells her that he’s sorry, and he genuinely feels responsible for her dark fate. If he hadn’t frightened her with his father’s sword, if he had said no… if only he had been strong enough to say no to his father, to say no to the clan…_

_In the child’s mind, a moment of complete insanity._

_He sees the sword in his hands, clean, unused. The Father must have given him the weapon for a reason - was he supposed to use it? If he was, he has failed._

_He has failed._

_The child wonders, in panic, what’s going to happen to him now? He cries, he doesn’t know what to do: the wound in the woman’s head, they will know it was not caused by the Father’s sword. What’s going to happen to him now? Is he going to have to repeat this ritual? Or even worse: now that he has failed, does it mean the elders won’t entrust him with the leadership of the clan?_

_Everything he has been working so hard to obtain, every single thing - begins to vanish._

_If he’s not the one, then, if they decide he’s not good enough to lead them - who will take his place?_

_The child suffers, for he knows his younger brother shall be the chosen one. But Genji doesn’t really want to… he doesn’t even like… The child fears as he stares at the woman’s lifeless eyes: above all things, he doesn’t want his younger brother to have to endure this sort of test. He doesn’t want his younger brother to experience this pain, to embrace this desperation._

_Has the woman died in vain, then? This turmoil, this pain in his chest - has it been all for nothing?_

_His innocence, nearly defeated, searches for a way out - a panacea of sorts, something to ease the pain. The child soaks the Father’s sword in the woman’s blood, as it pools around his feet, as it tarnishes his world. Then he exits the room, head hanging low, shoulders about to collapse._

_And the headache._

“My father patted me on the back, grabbed the sword and entered the room. I guess he needed to see it with his own eyes.” The archer reflected, “He saw the wound and the broken mirror - then he looked at me and nodded his head in silence. He knew I had not used his sword to kill the woman, and perhaps he could sense that I hadn’t killed her but he did not say a word. The way he looked at me, it was like he was trying to make a pact with me. He was not going to say anything. Before we left, he buried his sword on the woman’s stomach, then he retrieved it. I guess he needed that sort of warranty to make sure the elders would not try to convince him that I had failed.” He took a deep breath, “I failed the test. But my father didn’t care - he had chosen me. I guess, as twisted as it might be, that it was his way of showing me that I could count on him.”

_The child embraces the Father and cries, he didn’t know this kind of anguish. He didn’t know the human soul could feel this bad. He thinks the ritual is over, but it is not._

_His body is no longer a child’s body. He’s a man now._

_And his mind, accordingly, is a man’s mind._

_His spirit, about to be awakened, assumes position. The Father takes him to another room where one of the clan elders is waiting for him. Then another type of torture begins, as the needle penetrates his skin over and over again. The elder wipes the child’s blood, then resumes his work - the child can see pieces of the ancestral beast he knows he possesses as the dragon becomes art, and begins to take form. It hurts. He cannot describe this pain with words. The Father says that by the time morning comes, it will be over. But he’s lying: he knows such a complex design won’t be ready in a mere matter of hours._

_They feed him bread and water from time to time. He wants to sleep and forget, but they give him no such luxuries. Night turns to day and day fades to black. The child endures. He still endures. When he emerges from the room, the man can no longer feel many of the things he has felt before. The ritual is complete._

_The man and the beast are but the same thing._

_The child is dead._

“It took me such a long time, you know?” He confessed, “To get closer to a woman again. To get closer to anybody, really.”

_A few days after completing the ritual, the Father and his son visit an ally clan - then the son sees her, for the very first time, the one that shall become his wife. She’s only two years old, but the Fathers seal the pact and the son watches in silence as both kumichos shake hands - it’s done, then, they say: by the time Hanzo is thirty, the traditional wedding will be celebrated in the beautiful gardens of Hanamura._

_Until that time, which shall arrive in sixteen years, Hanzo is going to have to visit her once a year._

_He wants to throw up._

_Before departing the compound, the son takes one good look at the sleeping baby he shall marry, in time. But instead of feeling affection while contemplating life in the face of an innocent child, the heir can only feel a mixture of regret, pity and disgust._

The French sniper held him in her arms, unable to see the monster. He was a victim.

Finally, she could relate.

Finally, she had discovered that he had existed long before killing Genji. There was another Hanzo - the real one.

The one they had killed.

______________________________________

**Rule N° 4**

**There’s no point denying it: even if it’s been too long, your body still remembers.**

“What is it, Angela? What can I do for you?” The soldier asks after a while - the doctor is still petrified in the center of his room. He’s starting to regret his decision: perhaps he shouldn’t have let her in so easily. “Do they know that you’re here?”

He doesn’t need to mention their names, they both know who he’s talking about.

She explains it vaguely: the cowboy went to the kitchen, looking for the ninja, but he still hasn’t returned. Perhaps they’re talking things out: they know that coming back to Hanamura has been incredibly hard for Genji, and the bond with his brother is not progressing as they expected, the wounds from their past are still there, haunting them.

The soldier feels the need to point out the fact that Genji seems to disappear every Sunday night - but he doesn’t. He can see it in her eyes, the doctor is well aware of this - so the man quietens his suspicions, and takes a deep breath.

He’s been trying so hard to avoid this moment.

He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t really know what to say to her.

The woman takes one step closer to him and she suddenly realizes: she has told him why she’s in his room, but she has yet to tell him what she’s looking for. Truth is, she doesn’t even know what she’s looking for - her feet led her to his doorstep, her hands knocked on his door even when her mind was screaming to turn around and go back to her own room.

Still here she is, sitting on his bed, embracing her questions.

The sight of her is enough to make him tremble. He will never stop feeling guilty.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” she says, eyes about to rain, “I can’t believe I didn’t realize.”

She attended his funeral. Perhaps he was watching from afar, from a comfortable distance. She will never know.

“I was in your house, Jack - I was waiting for you to return.” She remembers, “Then I got this call.... they talked about an explosion…” She stops speaking, the memory overwhelms her. She was no longer a member of Overwatch when he died - he had done that much for her, Jack had convinced her it was time for her to become a true instrument of good, instead of just being a simple tool used by the organization. She believed in him - she believed him when he said she belonged out there, with the people.

“You never came back to me.”

Jack closes his eyes but he can’t shake the image of his younger self, the most reckless version of himself - nearly dead, on a bed far away from home, missing her, imagining her. She trusted him, she had put her faith in him - the impeccable leader, the voice guiding them forwards. He had let her down.

“I couldn’t.” Is all that he manages to say - there is no point explaining his reasons, there’s no point telling her that he couldn’t afford the risk to drag her down into the life of a ruthless vigilante.

She covers her face with her hands, she doesn’t want him to see her cry. But it’s too late. He sighs, and walks up to her, wrapping his arms around her neck and back, protecting her, like he always did.

“You were never mine to begin with, you were always Jesse’s - I simply borrowed you when he left.” He says and, for a small fraction of a moment, there’s s weak smile curling up his lips. He still is a handsome man, she thinks. The type of man that could steal hearts with a look, or a smile.

But his lips are wounded, she notices. There’s a red scar that doesn’t seem to fade in time - it divides his expressions, each and every single one of them. It fragments his emotions, compartmentalizes his gestures. Austere and pure, severe and kind-hearted, Morrison and 76.

“You came to me when he left, you needed someone - and I did my best, I could have done better, I’ll give you that much,” He says, “But I always knew that you were not meant to be mine. Still, I loved you, deeply.”

He has said too much, he knows.

“And, think about it - if back then they used to say that you were way too young for me, what would they say now?” He attempts at humor, he knows there’s no way out. “Look at me now, Angie - old, battered and decrepit, but you…”

_Still so young, and still so beautiful._

There comes the moment he fears the most - when words cease to be relevant, when eyes meet and silence stretches. The awkward moment, the one that always precedes a kiss.

“This is not your room, Angela,” He whispers, “You should return - before they realize you’re not there.” She’s still in his arms and the feeling is so familiar he can’t even remember why he has been trying so adamantly to push her away.

There’s no denying it.

He wants to kiss her.

And she notices - so she leans in, timidly, but he tastes differently. The feeling persists, it spreads through her rapidly, urgently - but the taste is different.

It’s bitter.

The scar is there, trapped between her lips, her tongue traces the pattern diving the soldier from the vigilante - it pains her to realize that the breach will remain forever there, separating the one she loved from the one who has returned from the grave.

She wants more but knows her heart is not ready to take the blow. She can’t even imagine his body - all those scars she has helped heal… how could she not notice? How could she be so blind? Defeated, the good doctor stands up, legs shaking in the warm aftermath of a love long forgotten. Who was she to reproach his decisions now when he had been standing right before her all this time and she had never even recognized him?

Perhaps, she wonders, she has already left him behind.

“You act like you owe them,” she says, hands on the door.

“I do. They took me in, trusted in me… they hear me out, come to me when they need advice - at least, they used to.” Jack whispers softly, though his mind is already voyaging beyond this conversation - his mind is getting ready to watch her go. A titanic endeavor. An impossible demand.

“Who taught them that?” She turns around, hands behind her back. “Who taught them to be kind but smart, ever ready but friendly?”

He nods, silently, and the woman finally exits his room. He whispers a nearly inaudible _I’m sorry_ as her shadow leaves his sight, he’s not sure if she’s listened, but he hopes.

Her scent lingers in the room for a while - he can still feel her in his arms.

He won’t be able to sleep tonight.

________________________________________

**Rule N° 5**

**Leave your parents at the door.**

He had chosen silence - for minutes, for hours. With his legs still stretched before him, and his arms crossed over his chest, the Japanese sniper seemed lost inside his own tragic memories. Eyes inspecting each building in the compound; each flickering light in each window - life, it seemed, could not stop to watch him grieve.

Amelie, who had stayed by his side, suddenly stood up and placed her hands on the railing: she could see why his eyes were so busy deconstructing the scene - Shimada Castle was beautiful. So she walked back inside the heir’s bedchamber and emerged again, carrying a bottle of sake in her hand - she wasn’t exactly a fan of that sort of beverage but still, she knew the archer could use a drink.

“If I had to be honest, Shimada Castle is not what I had in mind,” she said, “I mean, when you said _castle_ , I imagined a completely different structure, a more traditional one - according to western culture, of course.” She sat back down beside him and offered him the bottle. “It’s different from Chateau Guillard, but it’s equally beautiful.”

He nodded, even when he had never been to her chateau in France. Then he remembered: she gave up an accommodated life in the pursuit of a dream, she was just a teenager back then, when she decided to turn her back on the path that her parents had planned for her.

He admired her for that. If only he had had the courage to do the same…

“You never talk about your parents,” He mused, “Are they alive?”

She shook her head and snatched the bottle from his hand.

“I killed them,” No, wrong, “ _She_ killed them. My parents were Widowmaker’s first victims.”

His mouth agape, he had no idea. Amelie brushed his shoulder gently, trying to erase the feeling of guilt still dwelling inside that man, “Don’t be sorry, you didn’t know. Nobody knows.” They had taken everything from her and the void was clear inside her eyes, “When I left my home, the bond between me and my parents was severely damaged: they didn’t even come to my wedding,” A moment of silence, dense and obscure, “I remember, when I went back home to kill them, after all those years of silence, I saw a picture of Gerard and me on our wedding day downstairs. I bet that was my mother, she was the sentimental one.”

“Families are… complicated.” He knew his words were vague and inconclusive, still, he had learned the hard way how difficult it could be for a true bond to bloom in discord, “Every time I see Meisa’s daughters I wonder which one is my sister.” Hanzo finally said.

Now it was her turn to look utterly surprised.

“Our mother died when Genji and I were still pretty young - by then, it was hard for us to see the whole picture, but Meisa and my father were really close back then. As we grew older, we realized they all knew about Meisa and my father - I don’t know if they were in love, but at least they had each other.”

“Your father cheated on your mother?” Amelie asked, but the heir shook his head and smiled lightly.

“I don’t think he did.” He said, “He truly loved my mother.”

“But doesn’t it make you curious? Don’t you want to know if one of them is your half-sister?”

Hanzo shook his head again, retrieving the bottle: “A little ignorance is fine from time to time, Amelie,” He drank in silence, eyes still lost beyond the balcony, “Why did they make you kill your parents?”

“They thought that killing Gerard could be too much for a first mission. They knew who I was, knew all my friends, all my relatives - maybe they thought that, since my parents and I were on such bad terms, it would be easier for the Widowmaker to eliminate them first.”

She tried to stand up but the sake was already blurring her vision, the aftertaste still burning in the back of her throat. Hanzo caught her as she stumbled, her knees touching the ground in a less-than-elegant manner.

“When I left my parents' house and moved to Paris, I started working as a ballet instructor at a dance academy,” she said, words rolling off her tongue clumsily, “They didn’t pay much, so I knew I had to find another way to make money - I didn’t want to call my parents for help. One of the instructors at the academy told me that she was making good money at a nightclub, _very classy_ , she said,”

A nightclub - now tonight was starting to make sense, he thought.

“Anyway, they saw me dance, they interviewed me and they hired me,” She tried to stand up again but Hanzo kept her in his arms, “It was good money, _fast money_ : I can’t seem to understand what is it about lap dances, but people love them, you know? I thought I had everything under control - until one night, a man touched my butt for the first time and I puked all over the bastard. It was nasty, really.”

“You have a nice butt,” He said, blushing almost immediately.

“I was not ready for it,” She looked into his eyes, “I don’t know what I was thinking, maybe I thought that since I was a ballerina they were going to keep me in a crystal box where no-one could reach me… but I was so naive, Hanzo - we were all nobodies, trying our best in a city full of nobodies.”

He kissed her hands ever so gently.

“I don’t know how he found out, but my father came looking for me that night.” She was trying hard to fight back the tears, “We fought for hours in the middle of the street, until he said that I was a disgrace and that he hadn’t raised a whore. Then he turned around, and left me there, alone. I tried to call my mother after that night, but she never picked up the phone, I guess he didn’t let her.”

Hanzo let the bottle rest on the ground, far from her reach, then placed his arms around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him,

“When time passed, and Gerard proposed, I sent them an invitation, you know? I thought that if they came to our wedding we could talk things over, be a family again… but they never showed up.” In her mind, the image of that day, like a dull, thick curtain of fog clouding her vision: how she waited in vain, how she longed to see them. “You’re lucky, archer - not even Gerard knew the whole story, I just told him that my parents had never accepted my life choices… and still he never tried to intervene, he always respected me.”

She tried to kiss him, but the man stopped her before her lips could reach his mouth. Her hands were already roaming his body, clinging to his clothes, pulling him near.

“Let’s go back inside, archer,” She said, leaning on him for support. Yet Hanzo refused, stoic.

“I don’t… I don’t think that’s a good idea, Amelie.”

“You’re stuttering.” A soft kiss landed at the corner of his mouth, “You’re panting, archer.” Hands wrapped around his neck, and a trail of kisses down his collarbone, “Now you’re sweating.”

The archer stood up and took her in his arms. He carried her back to his room, and helped her get on his bed - then he turned off the light, and sat on a chair by the window, contemplating her.

“Just do it, already,” She protested, “You’re entitled to relax every now and then, you’re allowed to have some fun.”

The man stood up, his face hovering over hers.

A soft kiss on her forehead, a genuine smile on his lips.

“You’re entitled to that emotion Hanzo, you’re allowed to like me.”

“I do like you,” he said, “I told you that already,”

She crossed her arms over her chest like a child, protesting furiously during a temper tantrum but it only made his smile grow wider.

“So you’re not going to do anything?”

He took off his shoes and sat back down on the chair.

“You’re drunk. And I’m not that kind of man.”

She closed her eyes, giving up.

“Thank you, Hanzo,” she mumbled, half asleep.

The heir grinned softly at himself, leaned his back on the chair, and closed his eyes.

________________________________________

**Rule N° 6**

**Your greatest ally and your greatest foe: you can run and you can hide, but the morning after is always gonna find you.**

When morning came, and the headache began to disappear, the woman took a quick shower and left Hanzo’s room. She needed a coffee - perhaps she could get an extra mug for the sleepy heir as well, she thought. The feeling surprised her once her body was already standing at the threshold, eyes focused on the freshly made pot resting on the kitchen counter.

The realization struck her like lighting that morning: she hadn’t cared in the slightest if someone saw her leave Hanzo’s room. She had always been careful, guarded - she had always minded her surroundings, making sure neither she nor the archer would fall victims of their prying eyes, at least not until they could figure out what was exactly going on between them. Even when they all seemed to know, even when everyone around them had begun to speculate wildly about the nature of their relationship.

Now they hadn’t really talked about it but perhaps talking about it was not entirely needed. The stories they had shared had done that much for them.

She felt free - sheltered from her own monsters, the ones reminding her that she had killed one of their friends, the ones telling her that she was supposed to mourn him forever, like an eternal widow. Perhaps that was the key to the flux in their emotions - she had a right to be happy again, and so did Hanzo.

When she looked over her shoulder she found Morrison sitting alone by the window, a smoky cup of coffee resting between his hands. He looked like shit - sleep deprived and worried.

The old man smiled quietly at her, inviting her to join him. But the woman shook her head, refusing politely.

When he smiled again, she knew he had understood her subtle message: she was going to enjoy breakfast with Hanzo, in his room.

Still, the same feeling of complete freedom remained by her side. She poured two cups of coffee, even when she knew he preferred tea.

“You know, romantic relationships are not frowned upon in the organization,” Jack said, “that rule expired millennia ago. It was an act of pure hypocrisy to even try to keep up with it - everybody had been with everybody, and everybody knew, so...” He stood up, and leaned his back on the wall, “The only thing we want now, is for the members to keep a minimum sense of decorum. A bit. Just a tiny bit.” Jack grinned softly at his own words, the light finding his eyes, “Maybe this is what differentiates this version of Overwatch from its previous version: I like to think this new Overwatch, although still illegal, is less dull than the old Overwatch…” He sat down again, ready to finish his coffee, and Amelie smiled politely, as she approached the door.

“I don’t expect you to be his widow forever, you know?” She heard him say, as she left the kitchen.


	8. Microcosms

_“They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.”_

Scott Fitzgerald ― This Side of Paradise

**Introduction.**

_They don’t know it yet, but their bodies shall remain as they are right now, naked and together, for a little more than two days._

_Two cups of coffee shall witness the genesis of their passion, as the liquid grows cold and the night fades to black only to shine brightly again, come morning._

_There’ll be times when the archer shall wish she was wearing clothes - only to undress her all over again with hands that cannot be stopped and with the hungriest of mouths. The woman, in time, shall cover only selected parts of that slender body of hers with the bed sheets, inviting the man into a game in which his wishes are finally heard._

_But right now, her mind is struggling to remain focused on what’s happening in that bed._

_The intense marathon of his love has only just begun, yet she has seen him repeat the same actions over and over again - his teeth tear open the small wrapping and then she watches as the condom rolls on, only then he slides in. The woman appreciates the caution but still, she finds it curious. His care and his precaution disrupt the atmosphere - for a man so wild, it seems hard to believe._

_She can’t exactly blame him - she has yet to tell him about the many scars that Talon’s corruption has left on her body. Up until this moment, she has only offered him an abridged version of the truth, what everyone else knows, what everyone else has seen with their own eyes._

_But the terror still spreads inside. It knows no end._

_There are things she won’t ever be able to give him._

_He’s almost forty now, and the ritual of putting on a condom comes naturally to him. It wouldn’t surprise her if he had lived the life that he should have lived - or perhaps she’s wrong, maybe she's looking at things the wrong way. Perhaps the fact that he hasn’t lived the life others had planned for him is the real reason why such a thoughtful gymnasia became second nature to him._

_Sex in the life of a clandestine mercenary must be a nightmare, she thinks. Always ready to walk away, never sticking around long enough to forge true, meaningful relationships. Sex for him must have been occasional back then, the woman ponders, the repertoire of strangers roaming that body of his must have been peculiar, to say the least._

_Or perhaps sex was the last thing on his mind during those years. That would explain this hunger._

_But he is incredibly thoughtful. Amazingly gentle. For a man with a beast dwelling inside, his delicacy is truly unparalleled._

_Another condom rolls on and the woman can’t help but appreciate the gesture. Still, her mind wanders elsewhere, trying to deconstruct and dissect the nature of his moves - perhaps he’s trying to protect them from STDs that are transmitted through skin-to-skin touching. Venereal diseases surely are a thing, she knows - so she’s grateful for his altruistic, generous protection._

_The woman closes her eyes as his tender ministrations bring her back to the reality they have just created in the microcosm that is his bed. She smiles, tenderly, feeling lucky and terrified at the same time for she knows she shall tell him. She knows she shall let him in for good._

-

“Morrison, can I have a word with you?” Satya said, her arms were once again folded across her chest. She had tried to talk to him several times during the last couple of days, and he had successfully pushed her away every single time. If the disapproval encysted in her eyes was any indication, she was displeased by the whole situation. And who was he to blame her? They hadn’t seen Hanzo or Amelie in the past couple of days – but they all had _heard_ them. The former Strike-Commander slammed his fist hard against their bedroom door, his eyebrows knitted together, a frown of complete frustration taking over his aged visage.

“I asked for a minimum decorum, Amelie!” He yelled, “A minimum!” Not even a single soul in Hanamura hadn’t heard their 48-hour-long marathon of loud moans and nearly guttural grunts.

“This will only take a moment,” The architect insisted but her words only seemed to exasperate him even more. Jack sighed, bringing his fingers to the bridge of his nose - the pounding headache caused by those indiscreet snipers was becoming annoying.

“Do you really think this is a good time, Vaswani? What makes you think this is a good time, huh?” He slammed his fist against the door again, harder than before. When his anger didn’t find a response, the ex-vigilante simply kicked the door out of utter frustration. “I swear to god, I’m gonna kill them both with my own hands the second they leave this fucking room.”

The woman tilted her head to the side: she had heard stories about the old Jack Morrison, the authoritative, short-tempered Strike-Commander of Overwatch - yet this man standing right in front of her was definitely the real deal, easily surpassing all rumors about his moody temper. She watched him in silence, smiling quietly to herself as the man kept on cursing the busy lovers - yet her eyes darkened after a while, “Are you in charge?” Satya questioned, causing the man to turn around and look at her, “Are you the one in charge of this team?” The woman repeated.

It was an uncomfortable question. He had assembled the team, that much was true, but he couldn’t really tell if they still saw him as a capable, trustworthy leader.

“I need to speak with the one who’s in charge of this operation.” Symmetra added, “If it is you, then, I would like to request an audience.”

Jack laughed, though his smile never reached his eyes, “You don’t need an audience to talk to me, Vaswani,” He turned around once more, his fist colliding furiously against the door again. “Not anymore.”

An unexpected sound prevented the woman from speaking again - it was guttural, throaty and surprisingly high-pitched for a grown man’s moan. They looked at each other in complete bewilderment: neither Jack nor Satya could really tell for sure if Hanzo was suffering the most excruciating pain or if he was experiencing some sort of ultimate pleasure still unknown by the majority of mankind.

The architect and the soldier looked down, completely ashamed to realize their cheeks were now turning a bright red. “For the love of god,” Jack yelled, nearly helpless, “Shimada, you’re almost forty!” He turned around and stared at the woman still waiting for him, “And she’s no child either…”

Satya grinned awkwardly, “Perhaps you’re right, after all. I don’t think this is the right time, Morrison.” She whispered before leaving and the man nodded his head quickly, energetically - he didn’t know exactly what had changed for both snipers to be professing that sort of passion now and he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to know what had caused Hanzo's mouth to emit such a sound. But something had changed. Something had definitely changed between them and, deep down, he feared his words had been the cause.

_I don’t expect you to be his widow forever, you know?_

A new sound interrupted Jack’s train of thought - it was louder than the previous one and, for a moment, the man could have sworn he had heard the heir begging for the Frenchwoman to stop. But then the sound changed again, as it turned into a far more amicable exclamation - only to die in a brutal grunt and the sound of the bed breaking. Jack slammed his fists against the door for the last time that afternoon, defeated.

When he turned around to leave, he saw the omnic monk floating slowly towards him - “Are they alright? I’m not sure if they sound alright.” Zenyatta said, the filters modeling the monk’s voice were unable to hide a peculiar sense of uneasiness. But Jack, unable to voice a coherent answer, only shrugged as he walked by the puzzled omnic.

The cowboy appeared then, rubbing his sleepy eyes with his one good hand,

“Is there an animal in there with them?” He asked, his imagination already creating the most improbable and far-fetched scenarios in his head, “And they say Genji was the kinky one...” Jesse let out softly, but Jack simply raised his hands, feigning ignorance, and kept on walking.

________________________________________

Variations on a Theme

Act VIII

**Microcosms**

**(or how to tear them apart)**

________________________________________

 _“I learn a great deal by merely observing you, and letting you talk as long as you please, and taking note of what you do not say.”_  
T.S. Eliot.

________________________________________

**I – Borrow.**

After resting his head on her stomach for a short while, the archer stretched one of his arms and opened the top drawer on his bedside table. His fingers searched, digits exploring the tiny mess of small objects resting inside the container but to no avail. Then he looked over his shoulder only to find her curious stare gracing him again - only mild concern was decorating his expressions now.

“We’re out of condoms,” He let out softly as he stood up and covered his naked body with his black robe. Amelie tilted her head to the side only to observe how his narrowed eyes were clearly exhibiting signs of confusion: not even Morrison’s profanities, only moments ago, had successfully threatened the heir.

She watched him as Hanzo approached his bedroom door - but then he stopped, hands anchored to the doorknob, eyes transfixing a question he had yet to ask. The man turned around slowly, he seemed lost in thought,

“Perhaps I can borrow one from my brother,”

The expression, that should have sounded logical and most obvious in all its simplicity, had been stained by the unshakable reality of a bond he himself had tarnished. It should have been simple, after all, for a man to ask his brother for a spare condom - yet deep inside he knew he didn’t even have the right to do so. Even the smallest of favors, even the most trivial, insignificant thing was too much for him.

He just couldn’t bring himself to ask Genji to do a single thing for him.

Genji had already done enough.

“Hanzo?” Amelie whispered, noticing the look of complete emptiness devouring his eyes. The Japanese man stayed right where he was. “Hanzo, what is it? What’s wrong?”

He moved his head from side to side, slowly, meticulously, then he said:

“I don’t even know if my brother can use a condom anymore,”

She remembered the conversation they shared on his last day in Gibraltar, during a training session. It had been nothing but a joke to her, a poor excuse to make him feel uncomfortable: talking about Genji’s penis, if it was human or perhaps, inorganic, just like most parts of his new body. He hadn’t known back then, and he still didn’t know now - She witnessed every single question taking hold of him: all the things he didn’t know about his brother represented all the conversations he had chosen not to have, every little thing he didn’t know about Genji was now a missed opportunity.

No wonder both Hanzo and Genji had agreed on something: it was not working. Their bond was not healing. The distance between them had not moved a single inch.

He didn’t say anything, but it was clear the realization of such a powerful truth had hit him with unprecedented cruelty: it wasn’t working because he wasn’t even trying.

.

.

.

**II - Intimate.**

It took him a while to move his body towards the bed again. The questions remained inside his brain, slowing all of his movements, and making the man doubt himself again. Amelie received him with open arms, helping him out of the silky robe he had just wrapped around his frame, yet she was not willing to question why he had chosen not to ask his brother for help. She could understand the doubt in him, and could embrace the guilt as her own - she too knew firsthand what it felt like to be consumed by the void they themselves have carved into others' eyes.

“Are you on the pill?” He whispered, resting his chin on her shoulder. He couldn’t remember the last time he had dared ask that question, or who had been on the receiving end back then, but going back to the little reality he had forged with that woman felt like safe harbor for him, plus, he knew there was no point in acting naive, “I know I should have asked you earlier than this,” he added, “For that, I apologize.”

Amelie grinned politely then ran her fingers through his velvety black hair. It could be consequentially dangerous to even try to address the idyll they were living as a second adolescence - people like them, she knew, were not exactly entitled to experience that sort of romantic leisure and, furthermore, she could not forget how hard it had been for them to finally open up and get together. If anything, this romance they were sharing was nothing short of a second attempt at adulthood - a stage of their lives they were supposed to build, just like architects. When the notion dawned on her, the woman realized she would never be able to help him unless she let go of her own insecurities.

She took a deep breath, her fingers still busy, clumsily trying to curl some of those rebel locks of his.

“Hanzo, if you’re looking for a method to avoid getting me pregnant, you don’t have to.” Her fingers stopped playing with his hair; her eyes and ears, curiously expecting, were already waiting for a reaction.

Hanzo shifted in her arms, a puzzled look on his face.

“They _emptied_ me.”

From that moment on, the man began to feel a little too conscious of his own facial expressions. He didn’t want her to think he pitied her, nor he wished her to feel he had made him uncomfortable. It took him quite a while to find serenity in neutrality - the muscles in his face, the ones ruling his expressions, could not look extremely stiff - that could make her think he was angry at her - neither could he offer her a lazy expression without the risk of making her feel as if he didn’t care.

“I never wanted kids anyway,” Amelie clarified, salvaging his honor from the scrutiny of her almost surgical stare, “but I guess I would have wanted to be able to make that choice myself. Angela confirmed this to me, I can’t have kids.”

As he retrieved her fingers from his hair in order to squeeze her hand gently, Hanzo found himself thinking that the fact that Talon had deprived her of such a fundamental choice was an ode to what the terrorist organization had done with her: they had crushed her will by demolishing her mind. He could see the correlations with what the clan had done to him but still chose not to dwell on it.

“You never wanted kids?” He asked, “Not even when your husband was still alive?”

“He understood,” Amelie said, “and I always thought that, perhaps, since he was already a father, he didn’t feel the need for us to have a child because he had already experienced what it felt like to become a parent. Besides, he knew I was no good with children: I don’t know how to act around them, don’t know how to speak to them… he saw it first hand, every time I would try to talk to his little daughter - maybe he saw that, and understood that you just can’t force that sort of connection.”

Hanzo lay on his stomach, one hand placed on Amelie’s nearest knee, the other one underneath his own chin,

“I didn’t know he had a daughter,” He said, causing the woman to nod her head once in response.

“I was Gerard’s second wife;” The French sniper confessed, “his first marriage had failed because, according to his ex-wife, he was never around. When we started dating, we had to be very discreet because they were already divorcing. Back then he was trying to get custody of the child - but looking back at how things ended between us, I can say I’m glad he did not get it.” Her smile was bittersweet, “When the divorce ended we were finally free to be seen in public as a couple - but his ex-wife wasn’t happy about it. I was much younger than her, a ballerina… so she would always come up with an excuse so he could not see his daughter, it was heartbreaking, really.”

“Have you seen her lately, Gerard’s daughter?” The archer asked, but the woman only shook her head.

“How could I?” She looked down, “I killed her father, Hanzo.” He propped himself up with his hands and pulled her closer to his chest, “This is not like you and Genji, Hanzo: that girl should still have a father.”

“Well, it’s not entirely the same, but I’ll have you know my chances of ever becoming a father died out the second I killed my brother,” He stopped, even when he hadn’t planned to break the tension with a joke he had successfully done it, “That came out wrong, sorry,” He didn’t even know he had it in him, humor as a valid resource. “But even if my life had been different, say for example that I never got to kill my brother, and the clan was still a reality - I don’t think I could have done what my father did. Walking your fourteen-year-old firstborn to that ritual… I’m not that strong. I could have never let them cross that door.” He confessed, “But all things considered, I’ll have you know that I’m not good with kids either. If I had stayed as kumicho, if I had gotten married to the woman they had promised for me, I would have delayed having children - I would have delayed it until forever if possible.”

“The elders would have forced you to,” Amelie indicated, “They would have needed an heir to ensure the clan’s continuity.”

Hanzo nodded pensively, then he looked up at her, “I would have been a father by now,” he realized, “If I had stayed and if I had lived the life they had planned for me…” He was stunned by his conclusion, yet he collected himself quickly, and shook himself out of it, “Now I’m pushing forty, I think I’d be too old for diapers, toys, and pacifiers.”

“You’re still young…” She whispered softly, the tip of her index finger was busy drawing circles across his chest.

“I could never look them in the eye,” He offered in all honesty, finally opening up, “A child’s stare must be something so powerful, like a magnet pulling you close, drawing you near. How could I endure the look in those eyes? Always shrouded in dark clouds of shame, forced to live in the shadows of such a monstrous man like myself? I could never be a father, Amelie. Not after what I did to my brother.”

“Hanzo…”

“It’s true,” He said, “I could spend the rest of my life performing good deeds and becoming a better person. Still, the blood I have spilled will stain me forever - my own brother’s blood, it’s unforgivable.” He looked at her, “It’s the cross I have chosen to bear, Amelie - it is also my most important duty as a guilty man: to leave no trace in this world, to cast no shadow - once I’m gone, I’ll be gone for good, I don’t want to be remembered, I don’t deserve to be remembered. I won’t extend this name no further; I will not let our bloodline contaminate this world no longer.”

She contained him in her arms just like she had done many, many times since joining the team in Hanamura - looking past his initial coldness and rejection, the woman felt glad she had not listened to him back then. Fueled by her own fear of never seeing that man again, Amelie had mustered up her courage in order to find him in his element, in order to be with him. Now it was clear the man seemed lost in that fortress of wood and stone that his own name had carved into his skin - still unable to swim through the muddy waters of his past, stuck in a mixed-up present he did not seem to comprehend.

But the alluring voice of comprehension faded quickly in the air, as the woman understood how pathetic it was for them to find solace in the coincidental nature of all those things they had wanted to be, but could never be, thanks to the negative impact and the systematic abuse of others in their lives. It seemed twisted, deprived of all common sense to find relief in the arms of someone who shared the same emptiness inside but at the same time, the sole notion of knowing that he understood, that he felt the same way, that he had endured the abuse was comforting, to say the least. If she had to be completely honest with herself, the fragile peace they could find in such a deserted, hollowed void, was frightening.

Yet it was the only thing they could do.

Holding on to each other had become the only thing they could afford to do.

.

.

.

**III - Frightening Thoughts.**

That afternoon, Morrison decided it was time to finally sit down and listen to whatever Satya had to say. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly what was making him feel so uncomfortable about the whole situation, but he knew deep down that it had to do with the fact that Symmetra had intended to speak to the one in charge of the Hanamura operation. While it was hard for the man to assimilate the effects of his decreasing authority, the fact that the architect was so adamant had somehow validated the strange position he was now occupying - juggling power and leadership, at the cost of proper authority or credibility.

Accessing Sojiro’s office became, then, the next reasonable movement for the former vigilante. Hanzo wouldn’t be using the room in the foreseeable future due to his seemingly endless love session with Amelie, besides if Symmetra was seeking guidance or true leadership, the least he could do for her was to remain stoic in the image of the Strike-Commander he was no more. A simple mirage, that’s what it was, but right now, it was all he had to offer.

Sitting down on Sojiro’s legendary throne was an ode to irony - and Satya promptly let him know as she grinned somberly at him and looked around the stunningly impressive room.

“Does it feel weird," She hummed quietly, "occupying the place of one of your biggest enemies?”

Morrison chose not to answer - he knew those words could hold two very different meanings: she could be congratulating him, giving testimony of his endurance while his enemies had fallen long ago, but she could also be implying a certain sense of desperation, as if subtly letting him know that only a man in such an insufferable position would have the stomach to sit so nonchalantly in the nest of a former crime syndicate.

He could have pointed out that the symbolical throne now belonged to Hanzo, that the heir's intentions were good and that time and the right company had fully reformed the man. Still, Morrison refrained from doing such a thing: deep down he knew Satya couldn’t care less about the archer or his handful of unformed ideas about personal redemption.

“I wish to leave,” she said, “as soon as possible.” Determined to be heard, Satya went on, “I don’t know what we’re doing here anymore, everyone’s lost their focus. For a vacation, this has been simply too long, for a romantic escapade with a formidable view, perhaps you failed to see that not all of us are in a relationship.” Morrison’s mouth was agape, he knew Symmetra was not particularly thrilled by how the mission was going, but still, her words were a hard pill to swallow.

“This is not a romantic escapade,” He began, but the woman only smiled, and interrupted him.

“Oh, is it not?” The sarcastic smirk on her face was hard to ignore, “I did not come all the way from Gibraltar to listen how other people orgasm, Morrison. I can tell you exactly how many times your friend has climaxed over the past few days - and the love triangle taking place in the other room,” She leaned closer, feigning innocence, “I’m sorry, is it a triangle? Am I saying it correctly? Their novella is slightly dramatic, I’ll give them credit for that - they yell at each other, they fight, they have sex, sometimes they just stop talking to each other… and then there’s you.”

“Me?” Jack asked, stunned.

“Yes, you. The timid schoolboy that is constantly looking at his crush, but every time the good doctor looks back at you, you shy away from her…it truly is heartbreaking. So the monk and I wander around, with nothing to do and, you know, my skills are meant to be more than a mild distraction to spice things up between the two snipers.”

Morrison narrowed his eyes; “Well, while I do appreciate your extensive analysis of human behavior, I still have to remind you that we are on a mission.”

“Is that so?” The woman asked, renewing her impeccable sense of sarcasm, “Are you certain that Talon will strike? Are you absolutely sure they will penetrate this fortress in order to exterminate us? Because I honestly don’t believe that’s what’s going to happen - I think they are advancing towards their goals and no-one is trying to stop them, Morrison. I believe your strategy, or your lack thereof, has backfired, and your stubbornness has isolated us from the enemy, giving them time to carefully elaborate their plans and space, to properly see them to fruition.”

Leaning back in the chair, Satya crossed her arms over her chest and broke eye contact: she couldn’t stand the sight of a so-called leader so overwhelmed by simple facts, struggling so pathetically not to lose his composure in front of her.

“Now I know, since controversy has knocked on your door, that you’re desperately seeking validation as a leader, so I won’t be sharing my point of view on the subject with the rest of the team, I can promise you that. But understand that while you’re trying to figure out your position, they are only wasting their time - and the enemy can only benefit from all this.”

The aged soldier opened his mouth to protest, but no words reached the outside. Was she threatening him? Mocking him?

“I did not join Overwatch to make friends, Morrison, I joined because I believed in this cause, and I was eager to do my best - but you’re only slowing us down.” She sighed, though the sound was more a symptom of her frustration than an actual proof of any possible empathy she could feel for that puzzled man. “Please forgive me if I’m being rude to you, but I honestly believe Amari could do a much better job than you. At least, in this strange context that we find ourselves in.”

She stood up, but Morrison’s stern voice made her stop before she could leave the room.

“I didn’t say you could go,” He slammed his fist on the desk, “Sit down.”

The builder raised a suspicious eyebrow but obeyed and sat back down on her chair, crossing one leg over the other ever so elegantly, and allowing her hands to rest on top of her knee. Her disposition and her gestures, even when she had already made herself perfectly clear with words, remained unreadable. One thing was clear for Morrison: allowing Symmetra to leave Hanamura could be dangerous - her contempt could be contagious, and others could feel tempted to follow. The only thing he could do to keep the architect on his side was to be frank about the whole situation, seek her help and hope she would choose to stay.

Giving up his stentorian voice, and letting it rest for a while, the soldier began to show himself as a much more approachable man -  his tone was now significantly softer than before, more friendly and accessible than it had been only seconds ago.

“Over the last couple of weeks, the mission has changed: if at the beginning we were aiming for precaution, now we must seek discretion instead,” he began, but the woman offered him a puzzled look.

“If the mission changed during the past couple of weeks, how come I’m only hearing about these changes now, Morrison?” Satya inquired, “I thought I was part of this team.”

Morrison cursed himself through parted lips, for once he just wished she would let him speak with no interruptions. Still, the man continued, knowing too well that he was standing on thin ice. “Angela joined us because, when we analyzed the bodies that we found just outside Hanamura, we discovered those corpses were not Meisa’s missing sons.” His explanation was messy, he knew he could have done so much better than that but the woman barely gave him any time to clarify the words he had just told her.

Satya was confused, “So you’re trying to tell me that we held a funeral for the wrong people? You are basically telling me that you let that woman mourn her sons, even when you knew they were still alive?" Her eyes had darkened, "Perhaps you enjoyed playing dead for a while, but please don’t think that comes naturally to everyone,”

“We couldn’t tell Meisa because we still don’t know if she’s involved or not - that’s why we needed to keep quiet about it.” He said, trying to justify his chosen course of action.

“Morrison, that is just preposterous…” The upset architect retorted, “I can understand why you started to suspect the maid, but when you say _we_ , who are you referring to? Who exactly decided all this, Morrison? Who decided it would be best to just keep a part of your own team, the team that you yourself assembled, in the dark?”

“Amelie and I.”

Symmetra laughed out loud, sardonically, “That’s why she came all the way to Japan, isn’t it? You’re trusting our defensive strategies to a former Talon agent now?”

Morrison lifted his hands, defensively. It was clear Satya still didn’t trust Amelie.

“She came looking for Hanzo, and I was already doubting the maid, her story seemed flawed, to say the least...” he explained, “That night, when I saw her trying to get across the garden, I told Amelie what was going on. She shared her thoughts with me, so I heard her opinion on the subject, and we decided to take DNA samples and to take them directly to Angela. Mercy joined us as soon as she got the results - those men are not Meisa’s sons.” He paused, and took a deep breath - still the scrutiny of those dark eyes contemplating his complicated truth at the other side of Sojiro’s desk seemed unperturbed by his version of the story. “I’ve been trying hard to find these men but all I got are dead ends and suspiciously detailed alibis - that’s why we agreed on not telling the maid: is she’s been acting as Talon’s liaison, she can’t know that we know.”

The woman shook her head slowly, “But that is precisely the point, Morrison: we don’t know - I assume Zenyatta doesn’t know a thing about...”

“McCree doesn’t know either,” This time, he was the one interrupting her. “So now that you know, you must understand that it’s imperative for us to remain quiet about all this.”

“No,” She refused, determined, “You must tell them - you must tell McCree and Zenyatta. If you don’t, I’ll tell them myself - then I’ll leave, and I’m sure I won’t be the only one.”

The man shifted in his chair, sweaty, nervous and insecure. It was unlike him.

“They will be informed, eventually. Right now my priority is to find those men,”

“ _Your_ priority?” Satya fought back immediately, “This demands plural, Morrison, we’re supposed to be a team - how can we act as a team if you keep half the members in the dark? You are supposed to lead us, Morrison - still, you’re the only one who’s actually working on this case and when you had the chance to trust your agents, you decided to bring Mercy in...” She stood up, “Call the others and let them know, Morrison,”

Feeling suffocated by her constant questioning, Morrison stood up as well,

“Do I need to remind you who’s in charge of this operation?” His voice was a menace, he was at the end of his rope, the man had already burned all his boats.

“In charge, you say…Last time I checked, nobody really trusted you - not after the woman you trust so blindly now took of liberty of uncovering your lies,” She spat venomously, “I didn’t know Strike-Commander Morrison, but I heard a lot of great things about him - now this man that has emerged from the lie… confuses authority with true leadership, mistakes validation for simple camaraderie and the worst part is that he lacks the clarity required in order to establish real priorities, otherwise he wouldn’t have denied half his team just for a chance to experience again what it feels like to share a secret with the woman he loves.” Satya let her hands rest on the desk, her shoulders hunched forward, she was exhausted.

The man walked up to the door, “I don’t think we should continue this conversation. I’ll gather all agents, I’ll let them know.”

“I honestly believe you’re losing focus, Morrison.” She said.

“How could I be losing focus when I’m the only one who’s actively trying to find these men?” He fought, “Up until this moment, and even now that you know the truth, all you do is complain and highlight other people’s mistakes when you could be helping.”

“Complain?” She exploded, “I literally had to wait until those two had finished having sex for you to listen what I had to say. The Jack Morrison they remember would have kicked down that door, he wouldn’t have taken no for an answer, they would have never dared to ignore one of your orders,”

“I’m not that man anymore,” he stated matter-of-factly, “Because if I was, you would have never talked to me like this.”

After that, Jack stormed off, slamming the door on his way out.

.

.

.

**IV - Eastern Boys and Western Girls.**

By Hanzo’s request, all of Amelie’s belongings were moved to his bedroom - even when she had only brought one suitcase with her and the rest of her stuff remained in Gibraltar. Still, Meisa’s daughters made a whole ceremony out of it, as they moved across the room with renewed rapidity, making sure their new master, watching calmly from his bed, was satisfied with their choices.

Every dress in a hanger; boots and shoes arranged by pairs and even her training attire, neatly folded, resting on a chair and ready to be used if necessary.

Amelie was observing them too, but unlike Hanzo, she was up. She even tried to offer them her help but the maid’s daughters kindly refused every time the sniper would so much as try to touch one of her own garments. When everything was in its right place, the three young women exited the room, leaving the snipers alone again.

Amelie sat down on the bed, “What makes you so sure that your father was not cheating on your mother? These women are not much younger than you or your brother.”

“I told you, he loved her, he would have never cheated on her,” Hanzo began, with a smirk on his face and one of his hands resting on the small of her back, “I know the oldest one is three years older than me, and the other two…” He paused and tried to remember.

“You don’t know, do you?” She joked, and the man laughed quietly and nodded his head, admitting to his faulty memory or perhaps, his evident lack of interest.

“My mother died when I was nine years old, Genji was barely six. Remember that time in Gibraltar when I told you about her? She had asked us what we wanted to be when we grew old,” Amelie nodded her head silently, “That was one of the last days the three of us got to spend together, and I remember my brother was five or maybe six years old when that happened. I believe Meisa-sama had two daughters back then, but I'm not entirely sure.” He placed his hands behind his head and leaned back on the bed, “Everything we suspect happened between my father and Meisa-sama, happened after my mother died. I remember my father would always say that he had been through both heaven and hell in order to be with my mother, so I don’t think he would risk it all by cheating on her - plus, my mother had her temper too, you know?”

The woman rested her head on his chest; his hands were now on her stomach.

“My father became kumicho when he was just twelve years old,” Hanzo told her, “My grandfather died, unexpectedly, when he and a handful of his men got ambushed by an enemy clan. Oftentimes, my father would tell me that at least he had been the one initiating my coming of age ritual instead of some random clan elder - I knew, and he knew as well that it was not enough to make things easier for me, but he hadn’t had his father back then and as years went by, I found myself agreeing with him on this because I know if he hadn’t been there, I would have lost my mind that night.”  Many times he had tried to imagine the events of that night if his father hadn’t been there for him - Sojiro’s presence hadn’t exactly eased the pain back then, but his sole complicity had prevented Genji from having to endure the same torturous ritual that Hanzo had unexpectedly failed.

“After he completed the ritual, my father was introduced to the woman that should have been his wife, exactly like I was, but during one of his many trips abroad during his youth, my father met my mother.” He was smiling now, the retelling of the story their mother had told them so many times was surprisingly refreshing, “They met in Sussex.”

Amelie shifted her position so that her chin could land on his stomach. She took a good look at him, but before she could express her surprise, the archer continued:

“Now before you make a fuss about it, let me clarify: my mother was Japanese, just like my grandfather, her father, but her mother was British - my mother's parents met here in Japan, but her family moved to England when my mother was still a child because my grandfather was a merchant, and he was... well, following the money.” He said, “My father and my mother got married in London and my father, anticipating the scandal waiting for him back home because don't forget that he was supposed to marry another woman, sent a letter to the clan elders explaining that he had met the daughter of a wealthy Japanese politician and that they had gotten married. Of course, he was lying,” Hanzo laughed, “But the letter had been incredibly effective because the second they read it, the elders waiting for my father back in Hanamura bought the story almost immediately: they thought my father had been clever enough to shake hands with the Japanese government by marrying this woman - they thought the union was going to grant them unprecedented impunity.” He looked at her, a new smile was curling up his lips, “Can you imagine that? A yakuza leader marrying the daughter of a politician?”

Amelie smirked fondly at him, then asked: “But what happened to the girl your father was supposed to marry?”

“The clan elders gave her family a very generous compensation,” Hanzo said.

“So… money?” She concluded, and the man nodded his head.

“Basically,” he squeezed her shoulders gently as he sat up on the bed, “By the time my parents arrived in Hanamura and the elders found out that my mother was not who they thought she was, it was already too late. They were married now, the contract binding my father to this other woman had been officially terminated and I was already on my way - the kumicho’s first child, yours truly, was already growing inside my mother’s belly, so they couldn’t even touch a hair on her head without my father’s permission.”

Amelie listened as Hanzo’s story came to an end, yet the smile on her face faded quickly.

“It must have been hard for your mother,” she said, “she followed the man she loved but, ultimately, she had to adapt to the Yakuza life. Once she came here, she really didn’t have a choice.”

Hanzo looked down, “We never got to talk about it, I was a child when she died… but I can imagine being married to an assassin slash drugs and guns dealer can’t be easy. She was young, with child, and far away from home. Still, she loved him, deeply… if you think it over, the men from this family seem to have a thing for western women: even if my mother was Japanese, she had spent most of her life in England. Take Genji and Angela, me and you…”

She slapped his shoulder, “Is that supposed to move me, archer?” Hanzo raised his hands defensively, yet her question disarmed him completely: “Do you miss your mother?”

He nodded in silence. A part of him was grateful life had taken her away so soon - that way, she had not seen him going through that ritual, that way she had not seen him taking his younger brother’s life.

But another part of him, the part that hurt the most, still wished she was here.

.

.

.

**V - Elvis has Left the Building.**

_Ever since the day Amelie revealed his true identity, the man has been watching the world turn in slow motion. Trapped in the perpetual inertia, his body struggles to move but stays right in place, only slightly pulled forward by inertia, but never really moving on his own. His muscles seek the recoil, the moment when every single piece is supposed to fall back into place but there’s no trigger - his hands, empty, cannot fire._

_He watches others, as they enter his peripheral vision every now and then, and contemplates their dystopic tempos. Some seem to be trapped in the same timeless element, like Angela and her sentimental confusion, for example, while others like Hanzo and Amelie seem invested in a deadly speed. He wonders what will happen once the world slows down for them too, wonders who is going to break their fall._

_As they sit around the table, he gazes at them. All those faces cannot seem to recognize who is that man staring back at them now or who he is supposed to be anymore - does he still represent the sepia-colored clouds of a golden era long extinguished? Or does he stand in front of the fall of all symbols? Does he even have a name anymore? Is he the one he was before, or is he some other version of himself - perhaps the ruthless vigilante known as Soldier: 76, or perhaps the reformed version of that twisted version._

_Just how many versions of one man can exist at the same time? Where is the frontier where all lines overlap and all versions melt into one mess of an incoherent version?_

_Is that what he is now? An unshaped travesty of previous versions of the original man he is no longer, all matched together and mixed up in a frantic blender where he only acquires aspects and details of each version of himself but never enough to become a single, conjoined human being?_

_As he informs them that the bodies they buried are not Meisa’s sons, he watches as their faces change surreptitiously - some are quite vocal, like Satya, although the woman does not act surprised. She seems proud, somehow, that the rest of the team is finally hearing the truth from his mouth. Perhaps she thinks the team is no longer in the dark thanks to her. Hanzo and Amelie are trying their best to back him up, answering questions and giving explanations no one has asked for - it seems their bond has acquired a true symbiotic nature where they act and react as if they were the same entity._

_But Angela’s questioning is silent. Her lack of reaction is fascinatingly strident. She sees the cowboy in distress; she suffers what Jesse suffers even when she had agreed it would best not to tell him anything. Her reproach is mute, those big blue eyes of hers are asking the man why he didn’t warn her that this was going to happen and the man understands her frustration, yet there’s nothing he can do to placate the feeling. Not when Jesse stands up and says the words none of them are longing to hear._

_Jesse says he’s had enough, and they know he’s not only talking about the mission. Still, his courtesy knows no limits, so the cowboy sticks to the most professional aspects of his speech as if he was aware of the fact that he’s doing them a favor by doing so._

_Jesse says he’s already been there, he says he knows how the story ends._

_He exits Sojiro’s office, walks back to the room he shares with Angela and Genji, packs up his bags and finally leaves Hanamura. Yet his last words linger in the air long after he’s gone: he says back then, a man separated the team with secrets and lies. He says that very same man is the one leading them now._

.

.

.

**VI - Our Father’s Sons.**

The repercussions of the meeting were still affecting them. While Mercy had tried her best to convince Jesse to stay, her words had been aimed at deaf ears. The cowboy was gone, Morrison’s attempts at keeping the team together had backfired but what hurt the most was the fact that those ones that Jesse loved the most had been the ones keeping secrets from him.

As the doctor busied herself trying to contact Jesse, Genji went outside his late father’s office and sat by himself under a sakura tree. Amelie watched him in silence: for the first time since meeting Hanzo’s younger brother, he finally seemed approachable enough - aware of others, aware of the circumstances involving the group, but still approachable enough. His meditation posture, without a doubt learned from the monk during the Sparrow’s stay at the Shambali monastery in Nepal, had indeed isolated the troubled man from the rest of the team yet something in his artificial stare was piercing - he was waiting, perhaps, for Jesse to return or maybe, just maybe, for Hanzo to notice the sound of his heart breaking all over again.

But Hanzo didn’t notice. The older Shimada joined Morrison for a drink, and while the Frenchwoman was glad the archer had finally made a friend - or a battle buddy, to be more specific, since all their conversations seemed to revolve around strategy and tactics for both offensive and defensive maneuvers - the lonely scene taking place outdoors was hard to ignore.

She joined him outside, sitting on the green grass right next to him and bathing her face in the pale moonlight. Her posture had yet to be perfected; this became crystal clear when the ninja let out a soft chuckle, letting her know that he was well aware of her presence.

“I didn’t know if I should come over or not,” Amelie began, apologetically, “Angela is still trying to get a hold of Jesse, but he’s not picking up his phone,”

“Of course he’s not,” Genji said, “He’s stubborn. She should give him time - he’ll come around... eventually.”

“You seem quite confident, and laidback..." She remarked, as her hands came to rest on top of her knees. “How can you be sure he’ll come back?” Perhaps a little too calmly considering the seriousness of the situation, the ninja chuckled once again: she really didn’t know him at all.

“Laidback?” he asked, “I’m boiling inside.” The green lights from his visor flicked briefly, “I’m not a fan of drama, you know? He could have talked to us if he was feeling so frustrated. He didn’t have to leave; he’s a grown man, not a teenager.”

His words were harsh. The way he had said it, it was getting hard to perceive the romantic bond between those men.

“I don’t think Jesse was frustrated by the news,” Amelie offered, “I think he felt betrayed by you and Angela.”

The ninja was silent. Her words had killed his. It took him a while to gather his thoughts, then he shifted position so he could face the woman staring intently at him.

“Hanzo once told me that I need Jesse around because he brings me back to a time of my life when my soul was ruled by dark emotions.” He said, “Jesse does represent that darkest portion of my life: a time when seeking revenge was my only goal - a time for murder and blood, for self-loathing and hatred.”

The sniper put her arm around his nearest shoulder yet she removed it almost immediately, still unable to read the complexity of his character.

“Perhaps a part of you still needs to see Jesse that way,”

“I really don’t want to talk about him.” Genji retorted.

“What would you want to talk about then?” Amelie asked, a bit frustrated to know that, perhaps, she hadn’t been as supportive and helpful as Genji would have needed her to be.

“You and my brother,”

“Why does everything always have to be about your brother?” The woman smirked disdainfully but what she didn’t know was that the ninja, albeit shielded by his armor, had already replicated her gesture.

“I told you this already - since you’ve been taking up most of his time, perhaps I should stop trying to talk to him and just focus on talking to you about him. You’re much more amenable than he is anyways.” Just as she had felt back in Gibraltar, it was still intrinsically hard to tell if he was being friendly or not. “I wish to know what are your intentions with my brother,” Genji asked, puzzling the ballerina with such an old-fashioned expression.

The woman was staring back at him with eyes full of surprise yet before she could even manage to conjure an answer, the Sparrow went on:

“I heard you already moved all your stuff into my parents’ bedroom - you used to move rather slowly when I first met this reformed version of you, but now you’re moving at a completely different pace,”

“Genji,” She didn’t know what to say. His words sounded like an accusation.

“You’ve been fucking my brother non-stop for the past forty-eight hours... and in my mother’s bed, no less.” When he finally removed his visor, he revealed the angry look on his face, “Are we supposed to be family now?”

“I don’t know.” Was all she managed to say. She felt overwhelmed by him.

“You know what I once said to my brother?” The Sparrow questioned her, “ _She told me that she feels closer to me than she feels to you_. He knew I was only bluffing, but he understands it’s only half a lie. I think you consider yourself the victim of your story, just like I do when I think about my own story. You and I can relate. But there’s this other feeling, this feeling he’ll never get to experience: the moment when you open your eyes and you have to struggle to recognize who you are, where’s home now, what have they done to you, what are they expecting of you…” he looked down, “When I opened my eyes, I knew I had to end the clan - and I’m sure, the second you opened your eyes, you just knew it in your heart - you shall be the one eradicating Talon.”

It took her a moment to find her voice.

“I will end Talon, Genji. Even if it costs me my life - I have to.” Her eyes were filled with tears, “I still don’t understand why you have to be so bitter all the time.”

Genji shook his head, “Guess I just can’t seem to understand why you - someone who is exactly like me - would choose someone like my brother.”

Torn by his simple confession, the woman broke eye contact.

“I believed you when you said you had forgiven him - but I don’t think you’ll ever be able to fully forgive your brother,” Amelie said.

The ninja took a good look at the sniper then grabbed one of her hands in his: “Look at me,” he commanded briskly, guiding her hand to his armored chest, “You just look at me and answer this: what if I can’t forgive him? Does it make me a bad person?” He laughed briefly, darkly, “You must really like him, Amelie. Did he tell you how it happened?” She shook her head, “No? Really? He didn’t tell you about the most defining moment of our lives?”

Hanzo hadn’t told her, but she hadn’t asked him either. She wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to endure the tale of how Hanzo had murdered his own brother, especially if narrated in the first person by the archer himself.

“That’s a remarkably cruel thing to say,” Amelie whispered, still taken aback by Genji’s words. “Still, I can’t understand why you have to punish me for the mistakes your brother made. Every time we talk I feel that way: like you’re lashing out at me because you can’t lash out at him.”

“What makes you think I can’t lash out at him?” He asked, mildly amazed by the naïveté of her words.

“Because if you did, others would realize you haven’t forgiven your brother - at least, not genuinely.” Amelie retorted, “All your generosity, all your good intentions would be perceived as nothing but lies.”

He took a moment to process her arguments - he had forgiven his brother, or at least he had embraced that elusive sense of forgiveness years ago. Still, deep within, his feelings for his brother were in constant contradiction. A contradiction he could not yet dominate completely.

“I’m not trying to be rude on purpose,” Genji said, apologetically, “It’s just that I can’t wrap my head around the idea of…”

“Us?” She finished for him, "Together?"

The ninja nodded. In all honesty, he was not trying to end the discussion as quickly and as simply as possible - his curiosity was genuine. There had always been a transversal difference separating the Shimada brothers when it came to women: Genji had the experience that Hanzo seemed to lack. The Sparrow had thought about this difference many times during their youth, but the thoughts were still there - and now that Hanzo had finally found someone, Genji’s questioning seemed to meet no end. Well, according to every single psychologist he had visited during his teenage years, everything could be traced back to their predecessors.

In other words, one could simply blame everything on their parents.

“I was only six years old when our mother died. If I had to be honest, I can barely remember her,” He said, “But Hanzo got to spend more time with her. Maybe that’s why he’s always been thoughtful and considerate with his partners while I was a bit more…”

“Of an asshole?” She said, “I heard you were a playboy.”

The ninja offered her an ironic grimace, then continued as if she hadn’t said anything: “While my mother was alive, she tried her best to keep our father at bay. She said that even if Hanzo was the heir, and he was supposed to lead the clan one day, they couldn’t just repress his childhood – but when she died, it was game over for little Hanzo.”

Through his teachings and his strict sense of discipline, Sojiro had forged a future for his older son. But Genji, helpless and younger than the heir, was completely defenseless without a mother – so Sojiro took the Sparrow and placed him carefully under his wings, sheltering and protecting him from the rest of clan.

“I don’t think my father was trying to divide us on purpose,” The Sparrow considered, “but he always told me that I reminded him of our late mother – perhaps he tried to protect her memory by protecting me and spoiling me, just like he had done for her.” Their mother had always been a free spirit, but the freedom that Sojiro had procured for Genji was limitless. And, ultimately, it backfired. "When he died I became a menace: they started to say that my rebelliousness could infect Hanzo... Of course, they had other reasons to kill me, they weren't so nice and innocent - but I'm sure none of them would have tried to attack me if my father had been alive. Hanzo included."

The woman looked away for a brief moment then her eyes found the ninja again.

“So, if you were your father's favorite child, does that mean that Hanzo was more of a mama's boy?” Amelie asked.

Genji scratched his chin minutely, “Could be,”

As cruel as it was, Genji knew that Sojiro could never see Hanzo as a son. He was a tool, and Sojiro was the one supposed to turn him into a valuable element.

In the kumicho’s eyes, Hanzo was the heir, the one supposed to take his place after his death so there was never room for love to bloom between father and son – all they shared was just a very solemn sense of duty. Sojiro’s discipline, inherited from his predecessor and the clan elders, indoctrinated Hanzo in order to create a future leader. When they finally suffocated the real Hanzo and replaced him with this so-called superior version of himself, it was all over for the siblings.

“I think my father saw a student in Hanzo, a successor. But he saw our mother in me. While Hanzo was tradition, I was rebellion, just like she had been.” The Sparrow went on, “My shrink once told me that the clan, and by the clan I mean almost exclusively our father, had emotionally castrated my brother. Love was always an issue for him: in the beginning, they made him feel as though love was only a contractual obligation – they would choose a woman for him and he would marry her, have children with her and grow old with her. But now, after everything that happened between us, the notion seems to be finally mutating into something new: now he is learning that he gets to choose the one he loves. The only problem with that is that he still feels he doesn’t deserve to be loved by anyone – that’s why he was trying so hard to push you away; he wasn’t just trying to protect you from Talon,” He sighed, “And that’s why I often speak about the sentimental education that he’s always lacked. But you’re becoming his new dogma now – in a way, I feel as if you were becoming his new Genji: the one that breaks all his walls and allows him to visit and explore a brand new world.” He stood up, and offered her his hand for the woman to stand up as well, “If I were you, I would be careful though,” He warned her, “Unless you want to end up like the first Genji.”

Her wide-eyed gaze only intensified as the Frenchwoman stood up and saw Hanzo standing behind his younger brother.

“What are you telling her?” He asked, causing his brother to turn around almost immediately.

And then she saw it, the current difference between them: Genji had a broken body while Hanzo didn’t have a single scratch. But Genji’s mind was intact and Hanzo’s was still perturbed by the sights of yesterday.

“We were just reminiscing, you know? Going through some parts of our history, Hanzo,” The Sparrow told his older brother.

Hanzo grimaced darkly, challenging the ninja, “Which parts?”

“Mostly about our youth,” The Sparrow offered, unable to contain the venomous thoughts running through his head, “Like that day, when you said you had the high ground, remember?” An eclipsed smile was reflected in his eyes, “Looking back, I should have listened to you.”

Hanzo crossed his arms over his chest – “You should have listened many times before that day. Perhaps, if you had listened, that day would have never happened. Still, you never listened, you just kept on doing whatever you pleased, wasting the clan’s money, driving the clan’s cars,” he raised an eyebrow, his tone was getting sterner by the second, “It was simple, wasn’t it? Your mouth kept repeating that you hated the clan, still, you seemed determined to use all of its assets for your benefit.”

“By assets I take it you mean guns and drugs?” Genji retorted, his tone matching Hanzo's.

“You and drugs?” The archer challenged, “Don’t get me started on that topic.”

The Sparrow laughed sarcastically, “Was I the only one, brother? And since you mentioned me wasting the clan’s money, please know that I actually did enjoy wasting it the way I did, especially knowing where it was coming from… Now about the cars,” He scratched the back of his neck just as if he was trying to pretend he was uncomfortable, “More than once I asked myself, _wouldn’t it be best, to just crash this thing into a wall and be done with it?_ But you never noticed that, brother.”

Amelie took several steps back, but neither Genji nor Hanzo noticed it.

“Well, unlike you, I never took pleasure in harming others.” Hanzo reproached him yet the ninja smiled viciously at him.

“Hanzo, your woman is here, you don’t want me to talk about the things that used to bring you pleasure and joy.” Both brothers had their backs turned to the French sniper. Even if Genji had just mentioned her, it was clear she was the last thing on their minds. “I had to do things for the clan, and you know it. But you also know that I always expressed my nonconformity – I wasn’t like you, Hanzo, I couldn’t justify everything just by claiming it was my duty. Thinking back, I should have left…”

“But you didn’t,” Hanzo interrupted him, “You couldn’t. A part of you has always longed for that darkness.” The older Shimada looked over his shoulder only to realize Amelie was no longer with them. He sighed, frustrated by his own temper.

Only then Genji looked past his brother’s shoulder and noticed her absence. He, too, sighed helplessly.

Not only were they hurting themselves now.

But they were also hurting others as well.

.

.

.

**VII - Praesentia.**

Only when his back had met the mattress, he cursed himself under his breath. If only he had paid attention every time the ninja would try to teach him how to read kanji… now his limited knowledge of the language had led his bones to a cheap motel in the outskirts of Tokyo. The neighborhood per se was nothing to be remembered, and he couldn’t tell for sure whether he had paid too much for such poor accommodation or not. All in all, he felt robbed - to say that the room he had booked was humble was too much. But he had a bed, at least his body language had made it clear that he needed to rest.

After contemplating the dirty ceiling above him for a long while, Jesse stood up and stretched his red serape over the bed - he wasn’t sure if his mind was playing tricks on him or not, perhaps the feeling was just in his head, but he couldn’t get rid of the sensation of having several tiny little insects crawling all over his body.

He then lay on the bed again, but sleep was not meant to come his way. Not just yet. He could hear it coming and going, its multiple, tiny legs strolling freely across the room. The smell, that disgusting odor they exude… in spite of Angela telling him those horrendous creatures have no smell, he knew he nose never lies. The smell always precedes them - certain and unavoidable.

Until his eyes found it - a small cockroach, venturing his surroundings as if he wasn’t even there. He got to his feet and followed it, instinctively, trying to determine if the cockroach was alone or if it had brought some unwanted company.

The second discovery of the night, however, felt better than the first one. He was checking under the filthy motel bed when her feet became visible - her legs followed, then the rest of her tricky existence. He tilted his head to the side, a bit confused by her sudden apparition. Mercy had been calling him all night, perhaps she had been able to pinpoint his location by tracking Angela’s failed attempts at communication, he thought. He scratched the back of his head, doubting his own theory - technology had never been his cup of tea, he knew.

When he saw her shape fully formed, sitting on his bed, staring right into his eyes, the cowboy sat down on the floor before her, allowing the insect to finally run away. Sombra smiled bitterly at him, sliding her hands across his shoulder. Her words resounded in his head, then, _“Are you still playing boyfriend and girlfriend, Joel?”_

Perhaps, Jesse considered, she had known all along. Perhaps she knew such a revelation would be enough for him to make up his mind and finally walk away.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” He asked, but instead of reproachful, his tone was calm.

Sombra nodded; she had made herself perfectly clear that night in Hanamura: she had told him to run. Now, at least, she wouldn’t have to worry about him.

“I didn’t know how was I supposed to call you,” He joked, “wasn’t sure if you would come if I left a pie by the window, or perhaps you wanted me to draw a little purple skull by the door… I just wasn’t sure.”

In the tender bitterness of her smile, Jesse understood that there was no need for him to explain anything to her. If she was there with him, she already knew why he had left Hanamura. The hacker surrounded him with her arms and pulled him close.


	9. Diary of a Dead Child

Variations on a Theme

Act IX

**Diary of a Dead Child**

**(The Rift)**

________________________________________

_“Where have you buried your best days? Have you lived or not? Look, one says to oneself, look how cold the world is growing.”_

Fyodor Dostoyevsky ― White Nights

________________________________________

**2052**

_(Hanzo: 14 / Genji: 11 / Misaki: 2)_

The dead woman keeps on visiting in his sleep. Her lifeless eyes still ask him questions - she still wants to know why. But even if the heir begs her to leave him alone, she just won’t go away. The glowing blue that is now imprinted on his skin can’t seem to protect him from these nightmares. They are frequent, recurrent and incredibly bittersweet. He thinks, every time he wakes up, that perhaps he’s the only one left to remember the beauty that is no more. The beauty tradition has killed in order to make him eligible.  
  
But wasn’t he eligible already?  
  
For the first time in his life, the heir must face a reality that makes him feel uncomfortable: perhaps tradition doesn’t have all the answers.  
  
He shifts in his bed, covered in sweat. He misses his old room, the one he used to share with his brother. But after his fourteenth birthday they gave him his own room - a man’s room, they said. Full of symbols that threaten him, possess him and try to reinvent the spirit of the child that died a few nights ago, in a room with no windows.  
  
His father has asked him not to tell his brother anything regarding the ritual. Genji is still too young to understand, he said. And while the heir is determined to protect his younger brother at all costs, a part of him can’t help but feel relegated to the second place in his father’s heart. He has never felt that sort of protection from the man - everything was different when his mother was alive, he remembers. Everything was better.  
  
The dark hours of the night envelop his frame as the heir flexes his knees and clutches them tightly against his stomach. He looks so small in a bed so big - a true man’s bed. He remembers the eyes of the one that shall become his wife but he’s unable to see the candor in that innocent stare of hers. Misaki, that’s her name - and while her incipient identity speaks of such a beautiful blossom, the heir fails to see the beauty in her.  
  
The image still disgusts him: if only she could understand what their impending union means… her life will become hell. He can’t understand why her parents would ever want their baby girl to be dragged down into that life - he can’t comprehend why they would force her to marry such a despicable man as himself. The voice inside his head tells him that it was an accident, that he didn’t kill that woman - but why does she keep asking him why, then?  
  
Why does her distorted face have to come back to haunt him each night? Why can’t she just leave him?  
  
The clan elders say he can’t tell Genji about the ritual because his brother is not meant for such greatness. They don’t care about Genji’s age, they just care about exclusivity. The heir is the only one supposed to know the details of such a night - the heir is the only one supposed to carry the burden of such an atrocity. They repeat it, they tattoo the words along the scales of the dragon: he’s the chosen one, not his brother. He’s the leader. Not his brother.  
  
He is the monster. Not his brother.  
  
He covers his body with the bedsheets and begins to turn and toss in a bed that’s far too big for him. His movements represent the turmoil in his head, but he has yet to see it. For now, it’s just another restless night though he’s no fool: he knows the second he falls asleep, that woman will question him again.  
  
Her eyes will reduce his shape until he becomes a spiritless dot floating alone in the dark. He doesn’t have the answers she seeks, or at least he knows she won’t be pleased to hear the only thing he’ll be able to tell her:  
  
I had to.  
  
I had to.  
  
_I had to._  
  
He doesn’t know whether he should be thankful for his insomnia or not. He wants to ask his father how he made it back then, how he overcame the nightmares, the torture, the bitter aftertaste in his mouth. Sticky sheets and screaming red, he wants to forget.  
  
But he knows - the real nightmare has only just begun.

* * *

 

**2053**

_(Hanzo: 15 / Genji: 12 / Misaki: 3)_

A whole year has passed, and a few more weeks got piled up upon his shoulders. Dusty days of endless training and the monotonous roar of discipline are suffocating his agonizing childhood. Even if his age suggests he’s no longer a kid, somewhere deep inside he still wishes for the lights of innocence to shelter him again. Their dogma incarnates the life that waits for him, their doctrine has emancipated his freedom by locking it up in a cage.

This cage of wood and stone speaks of a profound legacy he’s supposed to protect - but they don’t want him to just be a simple guardian. They want him to lead an empire, and his mind has already found peace in the notion that it was simply meant to be. There was no escaping his fate. The sooner he made peace with such simple truth, the better.

For everyone.

Misaki hasn’t grown too much, or at least that’s what he thinks. He fails to see the subtle changes in the small girl that still receives him with a smile. He wonders if she remembers who he is - it’s been more than a year now, and his hair is longer. It cascades down his shoulders, just like his father’s. Misaki laughs at him, and even though her words are barely there, she can’t exactly greet him. She seems happy that he’s visiting and the heir can’t exactly understand why - the stern look on his face should be intimidating, to say the least, even if Genji says that the solemnity that’s always written all over the heir’s face now is becoming annoying.

The heir is not sure if Genji knows what _solemnity_ means, perhaps the Sparrow has heard it somewhere, and he’s only repeating the word as if trying to absorb it…

Something about this second visit feels different. His father decided to stay in Hanamura and the clan elders, fully aligned with the kumicho’s point of view, decided to stay too, granting the heir a small portion of manufactured freedom. Only the assigned clan chauffeur was there with him, but it was only in a figurative way since the middle-aged man was waiting for him in the car. What kind of future leader walks in with a chauffeur anyway?

He’s nervous, but Misaki’s parents also seem glad to see him - so they grant him even more freedom by leaving the heir alone with his future wife. He looks over his shoulder - he still can’t understand why those people are so interested in leaving their baby girl in the hands of such a monster.

Money and power, he remembers bitterly.

At first, he doesn’t know what to do - the baby still laughs at him, and the sound makes him feel uncomfortable. He doesn’t know how to talk to such small creature, and god knows he has no wish to hold her in his arms or even touch a hair on her head. So he stands, immobile, in the center of the room and acts as if he was completely alone: what does a baby have to offer, anyway? They can’t exactly engage in interesting conversations, they can’t talk about the future, or offer you a decent drink… Not that he drinks that much anyway - at least, not yet.

There is only one thing that Misaki can offer: her silent complicity. Perhaps she won’t even listen to the words he has to say but that doesn’t mean that the heir has to remain silent. So he speaks to her as if she was some sort of magical void of silence. She giggles, from time to time, giving testimony of her age. She doesn’t talk back, she doesn’t answer - and what’s best: she can’t understand a single word he says.

It’s refreshing, he quickly notices: he can tell her anything, and she will only giggle in response.

It’s not entirely fulfilling, but at least he can let some things off his chest. Like the pressure he’s been feeling lately, the nightmares that still plague his nights and the little time he got to spend with his younger brother in the last couple of months. Obligations and responsibilities, numbers and teachings that have nothing to do with a fifteen-year-old boy.

When he gets back home, the heir finds Genji watching the TV on their father’s favorite room - not so long ago, the Sparrow became addicted to a new channel that broadcasts all sorts of retro anime and a show called Neon Genesis Evangelion has captured Genji’s attention. So the heir walks around his brother in silence and sits down right next to him - the show looks incredibly old-school but the heir has to admit that it’s entertaining.

Even when Genji only seems interested in the fight scenes, the heir begins to recognize a variety of deeper, richer questionings that the Sparrow can’t quite comprehend yet - religion and philosophy, moral decisions and loneliness itself.

It saddens the heir - it feels as though he’s only able to float on his own in a sea that’s only populated by people of very polarized ages. The older ones talk to him as if he was one of them, only he’s not. The younger ones don’t even seem to notice him.

It seems he’s become the only fifteen-year-old boy in the whole world.

* * *

 

**2054**

_(Hanzo: 16 / Genji: 13 / Misaki: 4)_

Misaki speaks and, with the arrival of her words, the heir’s so-called freedom dies.

He can’t talk to her now like he did last year. She’s a repeating machine now - every single word leaving their parents’ mouths, she repeats it. Clumsily, not exactly in the most intelligible of ways, but she repeats it. Every word. Every single word.

Her innocuous giggles have also evolved: now the young heir can’t seem to figure out whether she’s mocking him or not. He finds her exasperating, more than simply irritating.

He doesn’t like children. He has never thought about this before, nor has he ever felt the need to make such a statement, but this truth resonates through him as he leaves Misaki’s house: he just doesn’t like children.

He’s not father material. He can’t _stand_ children - how they lose their innocence, how their little gestures become more and more annoying by the second. What are they even supposed to be? Tiny adults? Smaller versions of old people? He is not entirely sure but he does know one thing: whatever they are, he doesn’t like them.

On his way back home his mind thinks about his brother - it strikes him as a surprise how everything always seems to lead him back to Genji. Thank god he’s growing - he’s still pretty much annoying, now more than ever since an early puberty has decided to show its ugly face, but he’s his brother so he has to put up with him and all his antics.

He’ll have time to despise Misaki when they’re older, he knows.

He misses his brother. Every passing year seems to come with a little extra distance that the heir cannot outrun. He has lost count of all those training hours and those days long gone thanks to yet another clan assignment. As death becomes just another ingredient in the recipe for his unhappiness, his brother becomes a distant, blurry image that seems destined to be forgotten before it’s remembered.

At least their father remains stoic in his relentless sense of protection. A couple of weeks ago some of the elders suggested it was time for the Sparrow to go on his first mission but Sojiro told them off, and the heir was glad to know their father was still a sensible man when it came to protecting his precious little Sparrow. Perhaps their fates had already been decided; perhaps the blood the dragons shall spill will run like a river - but there will be a time for violence. For now, the heir is glad to know that the Sparrow will remain a child for a while longer.

When the heir finally reaches home, he sees his younger brother talking to the twins under a sakura tree - he hears the Sparrow’s voice in the distance, as he tells them the story of how he managed to watch while one of the maids was changing her clothes. With a toothy smile, Genji claims he has _seen it all_ and the twins blush and cover their mouths with their hands. They are three years younger than the Sparrow, and while the heir laughs quietly to himself, he sees how those two boys are afraid to ask if, maybe, that poor maid he saw was their own mother.

They seem to understand that, even if they play together every day, Genji is the kumicho’s son - and the thought is scary.

As Genji goes on, exposing the obvious obsession with tits he has developed in the last couple of weeks, another maid walks up to them and indicates the twins it’s time to go inside: the heir watches their faces as they jump in surprise, half-happy, half-scared: Meisa has just given them a brand new sister. They ask if they can go meet her, and Genji asks if he can go as well, but the maid only laughs and tells the small group that Meisa-sama and the baby girl need to rest now. 

There’s mild disappointment in their faces, but it fades away quickly as Genji tells them yet another sassy story but, just judging by the excessive amount of detail he offers, the heir knows he’s making it up. In the distance, the baby cries and the sound gets carried by the tepid evening wind - the heir leaves the garden and walks to his room thinking how ironic this day has turned out to be.

Just as he was beginning to realize how much he dislikes children, Meisa’s baby was entering this world.

* * *

 

**2055**

_(Hanzo: 17 / Genji: 14 / Misaki: 5)_

A five-year-old Misaki visits Hanamura. This is her first time in Shimada Castle, and her wide-eyed gaze gives open testimony of her obvious fascination: the place is much, much bigger than the house she shares with her parents, the gardens look beautiful in bloom and her mind can’t help but daydream about games and afternoons basking in the sun.

This year, Hanzo’s visit has coincided with Genji’s fourteenth birthday and so, Sojiro suggested that the little girl joined the festivities, for a change. At first, the heir had his reservations, but the kumicho assured him there was nothing to worry about.

It was a gesture of profound connection between father and son - one of mutual understanding.

They haven’t shared many of those. So the heir appreciates the gesture and meets his father halfway.

The kumicho knows what a fourteenth birthday means to a clan boy, and even if Hanzo’s memory of his own fourteenth birthday is still vivid inside his darkest memories, the heir knows that Genji won’t have to go through the ritual because the clan already has a future leader in the making. At least, that’s what logics say - and that’s what the clan elders believe.

The truth lies elsewhere. Sealed in secrecy, hidden behind the stare that connects a father with his son.

Hanzo has failed the test - his weakness prevailed that night. Now Genji was the one supposed to take his place. But the elders don’t know that. Sojiro has made sure the truth stayed far from their reach. Still, the heir fears - deep in his heart he’s afraid they’ll find out one way or another.

Perhaps that’s the real reason why he’s been spending so little time with the Sparrow: he doesn’t want to find any trace of pity or shame inside those eyes the second they tell him it’s time to go, face the ritual because his brother has failed.

But the elders don’t find out and the heir breathes, finding solace in the life of such a necessary lie.

Genji’s fourteenth birthday comes and goes. And while they celebrate and dance and sing and drink, the elders surround Sojiro and let him know that now that the Sparrow is finally fourteen, they see no reason for him to stay in Hanamura while the rest of the men are sent on missions and clan assignments. The father understands that the Sparrow has now crossed the last barrier separating his childhood from the raw life that waits for him as an adult.

_The kumicho knows what a fourteenth birthday means to a clan boy…_

The kumicho knows there’s only so much he can do.

The time for violence has already started, and the Sparrow is forced to join the clan men as they leave the compound. Blood stains his fingers, drips from his clothes and finally takes over his infantile visions. The time for toys and TV shows is over - something begins to die inside that child.

They can see it, they all can see it. But there’s nothing they can do about it. The damage is done, the wonderful crystal box that used to keep him safe is shattered now.

The father says it was time for his wings to soar freely, but Genji cannot seem to make peace with such a peculiar concept. There’s a furious shade of red contaminating the feathers - his wings feel way too heavy. He can fly no more.

The heir struggles in silence, though deep down he wants to grab Genji by the shoulders and scream from the top of his lungs: how could you not see this coming? Did you think that childhood was going to last forever? What did you think that all those hours of training were for? How come you could never realize what this family did for a living?

You thought we were businessmen?

Well, we are, in a way. But what type of businessmen speaks so freely about honor?

But even if the heir feels like dying inside every time a broken Genji returns home from an assignment, his mouth never conjures the words. Only his silence travels the distance and envelopes the wounded Sparrow.

Yet it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

* * *

 

**2056**

_(Hanzo: 18 / Genji: 15 / Misaki: 6)_

Misaki reads and Misaki writes. Vaguely, barely, but she’s getting there and communication becomes a reality. No longer the empty vessel that could contain the heir’s stormy thoughts, no longer the barricade of endless, senseless repetitions. She has a voice now, a voice of her own, but it only disheartens the heir - even if all her dolls and toys are still there, the early teachings of her brand new tutors have already begun to shape the proper young lady they expect her to be.

Her long path to indoctrination has sadly begun.

Now she crosses one leg over the other every time she sits, resting her hands on her knee. Now she always minds her dress and her contagious giggles have been replaced by a much duller grin that doesn’t allow her to show her teeth.

Proper. Cultured. Indolent.

Things back home aren’t any better. The gap between the heir and the Sparrow keeps growing in both magnitude and meaning although some other changes have begun to take center stage between the brothers: Genji has been making new friends, and even if the heir thinks his brother is only trying to fill some sort of dark void caused by his brand new role in the clan’s affairs, he can’t help but feel envious of the Sparrow.

Evidence suggests that even if the heir is the one supposed to be getting all the attention, Genji seems more amenable to others than the heir himself. More accessible and laidback, more friendly and approachable.

Even more attractive than the somber heir.

New topics begin to surface during their broken conversations: the Sparrow wants to know about Misaki, he wants to know if his brother is ready to marry.

But the heir only laughs at his brother, indicating that the girl is only six years old. He doesn’t say that he feels nothing for her. He doesn’t say that he’s not ready to marry. He doesn’t say that he dislikes children, that he never wants to become a father.

Through the days of madness and chaos that the Sparrow is living, the voice of the elders reaches the heir and they say, over and over again, that Genji is slowly becoming a bad influence for him. Clan member during the day, party boy during his hectic nights, the Sparrow is becoming a liability. And while Sojiro says there’s nothing to worry about, the heir begins to see the crack dividing his younger brother.

Genji goes on, trying to jump across the increasing distance separating him from his brother. He wants to know if Hanzo is still a virgin - but when the heir says he is not the Sparrow can’t hide his evident surprise. He doesn’t understand how could his brother find the time to do such a thing - and above all things, with whom? Hanzo has no friends, there’s literally no-one with whom he could have experienced sex for the first time. But the heir does not add any sort of detail, he can’t bring himself to explain how it all happened.

It’s gruesome, it’s haunting, it’s despicable.

The Sparrow says he is not a virgin either, and the heir suppresses the bitter sense of rancor filling up his stomach, concealing the uncomfortable feeling with an easy smile. It’s not jealousy he feels, far from it. It’s an envy so profound he can’t even find his voice. Why does everything have to be so different from one sibling to the other? Why life is determined to be so hard on him while Genji seems destined to be… _happier_.

Genji had a childhood, but even after it ended, their father’s protection was still there for the Sparrow. He had a freedom that allowed him to make friends and even enjoy his first sexual experience. Every single girl in town seemed to have a thing for him, they all wanted him. The heir was a prisoner of discipline and duty, forced to marry someone he didn’t love, bound to the elders and their teachings, the kumicho was a leader, not a father to him - and sex, that distant nightmare that still haunted him most of his troubled nights was not something he was willing to experience again.

But the heir fails to see that Genji has grown up without a mother, and he also fails to see that in the greatest portion of the adolescence that the Sparrow is now transiting, he’s lacking the guidance of his older brother too. He fails to see that, unlike him, Genji was born without the certainty of being the kumicho’s heir - he didn’t have his entire life planned out for him: he was supposed to struggle to find his place in this world.

Past his silence, the heir perceives that something’s not quite right.

Beyond all these new experiences, something remains broken inside the Sparrow. Then Genji says the words that Hanzo doesn’t want to hear: he has killed someone during his last mission and sex cannot erase the feeling.

Friends are not enough to mitigate the pain.

The Sparrow seeks his brother, that distance lighthouse that towers over him and eclipses all his colors. He says he’s afraid of the man he’s becoming - that this taste of true power is unsettling. He cries and asks what is wrong with him, why can’t he just adapt to this life, why does this power feel like a thirst that won’t ever be fully quenched.

The heir holds him in his arms for a brief moment. Yet his mind, distant, cannot seem to remember when it was the last time he has seen his younger brother cry.

* * *

 

**2057**

_(Hanzo: 19 / Genji: 16 / Misaki: 7)_

Genji’s group of selected friends gets bigger and bigger every day and, deep down, the heir can’t help but wonder if his brother really knows the meaning of the word selected. Their karaoke nights know no distinction between weekends and weekdays, and the clan elders are becoming more and more upset.

They say Genji’s late for his training every single day. That he acts distracted, that the most frivolous things seem to dominate his attention. That he’s been drinking and having sex with a variety of strangers - and that he has been bringing home some of those strangers, acting as if Shimada Castle was some sort of luxury resort.

Some of them dare say that Sojiro has lost control. That the Sparrow’s erratic behavior is getting out of hand. That the kid lacks all sense of duty and discipline…

That he should be more like his brother Hanzo.

The heir sees his father in distress - he watches as the kumicho curses the Sparrow behind closed doors. A part of him wants to mock the leader, a part of him wants to tell him that it’s all his fault. That freedom must be earned, that it shouldn't be a consolation prize. But then the feeling of guilt overcomes him, so the heir stays quiet, and watches in silence as his father and mentor asks himself what went wrong.

For the first time since meeting Misaki, the heir actually wants to go visit her. He just wants an excuse to leave Hanamura, even if only for a little while. But the moment of peace is short and agonizingly trivial. The indoctrinated girl cannot help him. At least, not yet.

The heir goes back home, but even if the elders and his father are silent, there are other sounds preventing him from falling asleep. A choir of moans keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling above him, the vices of orgasms galore taking place in his brother’s room are getting on his nerves.

Respect for the home their parents built together - such a lack of manners, such a decaying taste for good morals.

He gets up and leaves his bed. He is determined, furious feet lead him through the corridor. He doesn’t knock on his younger brother’s door, even when their father has taught them to always respect each other’s privacy. His unwanted presence, far from interrupting the Sparrow’s pleasure, only elicits a quiet chuckle from the ninja - then he turns around, stares into the heir’s cold eyes and asks,

“Brother, would you like to join us?”

He’s mocking him. His younger brother is making a fool of him.

Little does the heir know, but this won’t be the last time he’ll be hearing those words from his brother, and while this unexpected first time makes him snort and scoff nervously to the point of almost spilling his green tea, the last time will be remarkably cruel. The last time will make his heart tremble in desperation.

The last time will make him doubt.

As he turns around and leaves the Sparrow’s bedchamber, the lonely heir catches a glimpse of a shadow moving inside the room - the shape is so magnificent it forces him to stay put and stare for a while longer. The shadows belong to his brother and his brother belongs to the shadows, as he moves and breathes and enjoys his sexuality without any restraints. Looking down, the heir realizes that the chains that immobilize his body are his and his alone. That the nightmares that still plague most of his nights are his and his alone. That the shackles around his wrists are his, and his alone.

One last thought crosses his mind - his brother’s body, the body that casts such a magnificent shadow, is the body of a man.

The Sparrow is no longer the fragile child he still remembers.

Genji is a man, albeit a rather premature one, and the heir can only wonder how on earth he managed to waste so much time.

* * *

 

**2058**

_(Hanzo: 20 / Genji: 17 / Misaki: 8)_

Even if the heir has been feeling like an adult for a very long time now, when he turns twenty, he finally becomes one. Legally.

There’s little time for Misaki now, and so the heir’s visits become dull and short: a polite greeting, a silent stare, a goodbye kiss. He can’t blame the little girl for his lack of interest: being eight years old is an intrinsically boring situation, even for a girl who’s in the middle of a rather dogmatic race against the clock.

Coming of age day, (a ceremony that has been celebrated in Japan since at least 714 AD, when a young prince donned new robes and a hairstyle to mark his passage into adulthood) is held in order to congratulate and encourage all those who have reached the age of majority, twenty years old, over the past year, and to help them realize that they have become adults - but the heir has already realized.

He has realized his own adulthood a long, long time ago.

There’s little controversy in his mind about this day and what it represents. As a matter of fact, those people around him - the ones that are also entering adulthood, still look like children in the heir’s eyes and so, he envies them in silence, trapped in his private elucubrations.

The festivities continue during the night as countless strangers gather together in order to visit Shimada Castle and celebrate the heir’s adulthood. He walks among them, trying his best to blend in a sea of faces he can’t seem to recognize. People are strange, he muses: many of them live in fear thanks to the clan yet this occasion brings them all together and, in their eyes, he can see the comforting closeness and the hungry proximity to power and money shining under a blanket of stars.

Women seem to notice him now. In fact, they have been noticing him lately - as his twentieth birthday began to get closer and closer, women began to pay attention to the heir. They praise his velvety black hair, they admire him for his skills and his impeccable disposition… they want to be near him, touch him if possible, get lost in those dark eyes of his…

He begins to wonder why all these women seem so interested in him - why _now_. He wonders if they like him for him or for who he is, he wonders if they like Hanzo or if, perhaps, it’s the figure of the future kumicho the real reason why they’ve been seeking his company. When he looks over his shoulder and sees Genji surrounded by friends he feels the doubt grow within him - he wants to ask his brother if he ever doubts his friends, if he’s sure they want him for him, and not because of who he is.

When alcohol takes over, the heir loses his inhibitions. He’s free to smile and engage in small talk with people he doesn’t really know. He laughs and even stares at some of those beautiful women who are obviously trying to captivate him with their charm even when they all know he has a half-baked future wife. They don’t seem to care in the slightest but, truth be told, neither does he.

Easy company means no harm after all...

Sex finds him again, after six years of fear and regret. After the nightmares and the screams, the time has come for the heir to break free but this brand new freedom feels different, it tastes different, it smells different.

When the heir returns to the party, he is finally able to look at his younger brother without getting that feeling of jealousy or envy. He has finally had a taste of that life and even when he knows it’s only a temporary panacea he has to admit: it felt good.

Looking over his shoulder, the heir spots the one that takes his breath away. He doesn’t know her name, but he’s seen her many times working at the little ramen shop just outside Hanamura. Keeping score of all her moves, her father watches her carefully but when the man notices the heir staring at his daughter, he suddenly begins to instigate the poor girl, trying to convince her to go talk to the future leader of the Shimada Clan. Hanzo turns around and leaves the party: she’s lovely, indeed, but she does not deserve the terrible life he has to offer.

* * *

 

**2059**

_(Hanzo: 21 / Genji: 18 / Misaki: 9)_

Death has decided it’s time to revisit Shimada Castle.

It arrives unannounced, surprising everyone when its unexpected dark wings envelop the living. Meisa’s husband was found dead this morning. Father of five, strong and hard-working Reiji has sadly passed. His heart, they say, gave up all of a sudden.

A small ceremony is held inside Shimada Castle. They honor the one that is no more and give their heartfelt condolences to the ones he’s left behind: three daughters, one of them still a small child, his beloved twin boys and a wife that doesn’t cry.

The kumicho stands by her side, holding her hand in his.

The heir wonders if, perhaps, the leader of the Shimada Clan hasn’t heard the rumors implying an affair between him and the maid - but he finds the thought ridiculous: his father knows everything; not a single detail escapes his sight and so the heir realizes that, if the kumicho knows about all those rumors, he simply does not care.

The Sparrow stands by the twins, and even if their friendship has stalled over the years, it’s nice to see them together again, even if they’re bonding over a tragedy.

The heir, bored and seemingly unmoved by the circumstances, walks around the garden all by himself. There’s something fascinating about those rumors, he thinks, and even if he’s not entirely sure if they’re true or not, even if he doesn’t know if he positively likes the idea of his father finding love again or not, a part of him wishes he was as brave as the kumicho.

His father had been promised to somebody else, just like he was now. But his father had broken all rules by marrying his mother - he had deceived the clan elders, he had managed to create the family he wanted to have, with the woman he wanted to marry. Hanzo knew he didn’t have it in him. He would marry Misaki and she would give him children that, in time, would find their separate ways in life just like he and his brother have done. But if the rumors are true, that means his father has done it again. A kumicho cannot marry another woman after his wife dies - at least, they’re not supposed to. But here, the leader holds the maid’s hand in front of everyone and breaks all walls, amputates all traditions.

He’s proud of his father.

But he doubts himself. He knows he doesn’t have what it takes, he knows he doesn’t have the guts to be the man he wants to be.

They have taught him many things - but they never taught him how to say no.

He walks by himself until the sakura trees become a blurry landscape playing tricks on him. The stones in his path are nothing but milestones of the life he won’t get to live. The pond finds him rather quickly, his hair in the wind dances around his shoulders. He doesn’t know it yet, but his feet are moving as if they had a mind of their own.

His mother waits in the valley of death. She longs to hear his voice, but his constricted throat cannot find the way to release the words he longs to say - how he misses her, how he wishes she was still around.

What would she think of him now?

The heir sits before her immaculate name and closes his eyes - he thinks about Misaki, and wonders what she’ll think of him in the future when he becomes her husband. Would she remember how he visited her each year? Would she think it was nothing but the dictatorial course of tradition? He fears she’ll see him as some sort of pervert - a delusional man obsessed with a child. If only she knew he felt absolutely nothing for her…

He contemplates the process with eyelids that don’t want to see the world. He senses the perverted nature of their bond, forcing him to witness all her transformations: from careless child to indoctrinated lady; from girl to woman, from woman to wife.

It’s repulsive, it’s irksome.

It’s bloodcurdling.

But still, he plays by the rules and he visits her each year and takes note of all her changes. Just because they want him to.

They have taught him many, many things.

But they never taught him how to say no.

* * *

 

**2060**

_(Hanzo: 22 / Genji: 19 / Misaki: 10)_

Misaki is ten years old, and the heir cannot believe just how much she has grown in the last year. She’s brighter, clever, funnier and for the first time since meeting the girl, her delightful company makes him call her _young lady_ and her mother blushes for her, anticipating the life her daughter has earned just by… being born - and consequently traded, like cattle.

Livestock…

He still doesn’t feel anything for her and, deep inside, he wonders if he ever will. He knows love is only for the brave, and he might be the future leader of a yakuza organization but when it comes to the heart, he simply has no clue.

Genji has been trying to get him to talk about Misaki again, but to no avail. It seems, lately, his patience is wearing thin. Every time he tries to reach out and talk to his older brother, the heir only shies away from him, offering only monosyllabic answers and vague explanations. He says he’s busy, says he doesn’t have the time and Genji knows he’s only trying to avoid him because he fails to see that even if their worlds are changing, there’s still so much they have in common.

But the heir can’t seem to see it.

Lately the elders have been spending a lot of time with the heir - teaching him numbers and how to properly administer the clan and the compound. Math is exhausting, but the heir knows he needs to pay attention to these lessons. The importance of these moments is crucial: in the future, not only his capacity for leading the empire muscle will suffice to ensure the continuity of his predecessors’ legacy.

Still the Sparrow misses his older brother. He has been missing him for so long a part of him still struggles to remember what it felt like to have a brother.

Taking the seemingly petulant heir by surprise, the Sparrow tells him that he has been seeking help from a professional. He says that he can no longer discern between day and night, right and wrong, company and solitude. Genji says that the woman has been most helpful so far, and that they’ve spent several hours talking about the heir.

Hanzo trembles - is his brother so naively stupid as to tell a stranger about their family business? Even when everyone in Japan knows that the Shimada lineage conveys one of the strongest names in the yakuza business, the elders still demand discretion - and so does his father.

But the Sparrow only laughs, as if he doesn’t know the man staring back at him with eyes that can’t seem to see beyond the most obvious facts. But then he says nothing else, and the heir thinks that perhaps, he has just lost yet another chance to connect with his younger brother.

Why is he seeking help outside? Why does he feel the need to trust a stranger?

Why - when he’s there for him.

Is he there for him?

He doesn’t have the guts to admit it. He can’t face a truth he knows by heart: year after year, the bond between them seems to break a little bit more. They haven’t really talked in ages now, and while the elders say that it’s better this way because the Sparrow’s rebelliousness might be contagious, deep down the heir knows he has to take responsibility for his actions.

He should have done more.

He should have listened more.

He should have talked more.

But he fails to see that the Sparrow doesn’t have the time to keep up with his silent monologues. He fails to see that his younger brother misses his voice, not his judgmental stare. 

Genji just smiles, a mocking grin that taunts the dubitative heir.

“Do you like babysitting your future wife that much? Isn’t it a bit weird?” The Sparrow asks, and he leaves.

* * *

 

**2061**

_(Hanzo: 23 / Genji: 20 / Misaki: 11)_

Misaki stands in the middle of nowhere, facing a childhood that’s slowly starting to leave her as she timidly takes her first steps into the bumpy roads of teenage heaven. She’s not this, but she’s not that either, and the lifeless expressions taking over her face give testimony of just how hard it is to grow. And the heir understands.

Growing up has been troublesome and even traumatic for him. The years gone by have come to represent an entire universe of missing stuff that he can never recover. Raw experience has molded his mind, subjugating his will. Now the headache goes wherever he goes and the tremor underneath his skin makes him feel much older than he is.

He, too, has fallen victim of alcohol and substances - just like the Sparrow. And while Genji needs it to fill the void, Hanzo needs it in order to face reality: he cannot fill his brother’s void. He should. But he just can’t.

This year, Genji is the one officially entering adulthood. The celebration makes the heir think about himself only a few years ago, back when he was just a desired face trying to blend in a sea of countless strangers. The Sparrow’s friends are there, all of them, they greet him and they congratulate him but they don’t know that the second son of the leader of such a macabre empire is about to face his darkest years.

Alone with everybody, the Sparrow dances and laughs - and speaks, but he does not talk. Says, but he just won’t mean it.

One after the other, his companions march in a mad parade of easy pleasures. And the heir watches, from afar, as his younger brother’s every sin becomes a vice that can be neither repaired nor expiated.

He will trace his younger brother’s steps, and will be led down the same corridors now bursting in profane lights. He’ll see the sparks come blazing, aiming for him. And while their moans and their groans echo through the decaying layers of yesterday’s tradition, each brother alone in each separate bed, with each separate companion will drown in an ocean of complete emptiness.

The bridge between them has ceased to exist.

Now they only dance as broken shadows, always longing for the lost innocence of a shared childhood, always bleeding the brotherly bond they could not save.

By the time the party ends, the kumicho walks up to Genji and offers him a book: _White nights_ , by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. The Sparrow thanks his father, and then the kumicho notices it: his younger son does not remember.

“It was your mother’s favorite book,” He says, almost brokenhearted by the notion that his beloved Sparrow has forgotten the woman they have loved the most.

Genji contemplates the book, as it weights lightly on the palm of his hand - he can see the yellow pages, sees the edges that have been worn away after years of oblivion and the symptoms that time has inflicted upon the item. Yet it’s not enough to bring her back - her voice has faded from his memories a long time ago.

He can’t remember her.

He can’t remember the last memory he has of his mother.

The following morning, he puts the book back on his father’s nightstand and claims that he finds it boring, slow-paced, and terribly old-fashioned. But the heir rescues it and once he starts reading through the pages, he can’t stop.

Because he remembers her.

Because he still needs her.

* * *

 

**2062**

_(Hanzo: 24 / Genji: 21 / Misaki: 12)_

Genji is in Ibiza.

He didn’t tell anyone about this trip, nor did he care to explain why he was leaving so suddenly but with every picture he sends the elders explode in sheer fury and Sojiro, for the first time in his entire life, doesn’t know what to do with his son.

Hanzo remains inalterable in his place as second-in-command. He’s the perfect son, the perfect clan member - he’s the perfect _product_. Thoughtful, strong, determined… The only one that stands when everything else falls down.

And down they fall.

Sojiro looks at his older son like a caged animal that’s about to be devoured by the most gruesome of beasts. And the elders are relentless in their witch hunt, pointing out every flaw and picking on the weak. The clan leader tries to defend his younger son by stating that even if Genji’s behavior has been questionable, he still is one of the most important members of the clan.

He is his son. They cannot touch him.

He’s getting tired of this, so his voice becomes loud and clear: as long as he lives, no-one shall question his beloved Sparrow.

Hanzo works harder during Genji’s unexpected absence. He fills in for his brother in missions that don’t require his presence, runs all his errands, and completes his every task. He knows Genji won’t appreciate the gesture and, perhaps, he won’t even say thank you - but at least he’s trying.

Misaki understands why this year’s visit is so brief - the heir has been incredibly busy lately, and while Genji is gone and partying someplace else, he needs to make sure that nothing comes in the way of their family business.

Until one night, Hanzo’s phone rings and the sky turns a shade darker. One of his brother’s closest friends is asking him to come pick him up at the airport. Alone. And discreetly.

Genji has ODed on their flight back to Japan.

He’s rushed to the hospital and while the doctors try their best to save his life, Hanzo weights their name down upon the cops waiting for the Sparrow to regain consciousness. It’s a good thing they’re feared, the heir thinks. It’s a good thing they rule the entire city.

He should be so furious right now… but he’s not.

His worry blinds him.

One by one, the Sparrow’s friends leave the hospital. It seems that an unconscious Genji is not entertaining enough for them. Hanzo remembers their names, and commits their faces to memory: they don’t deserve his brother’s affection but if he has to be honest, neither does he.

He sits by the Sparrow’s bed, once the doctors say he’s been stabilized, and waits ever so patiently for those young eyes to find him again. It takes longer than expected and the wait quickly becomes torture - there’s just so much he wants to say to him.

But when the Sparrow opens his eyes and finds his brother waiting for him, he breaks down and cries like a helpless child and so all of Hanzo’s words are put on hold again. The heir promises his brother that he won’t say a word about it, that he’ll make sure the elders never find out about this and Genji listens and nods his head, appreciating the gesture.

As the IV drip gives his brother the substance he lacks, the heir’s heartbeat quiets in the middle of his chest and for the first time that night he breathes out.

They both have hit rock bottom. Now the only way out is up.

* * *

 

**2063**

_(Hanzo: 25 / Genji: 22 / Misaki: 13)_

It is safe to say that after the incident, the brothers have found peace in each other’s silence. While Hanzo stayed true to his words, Genji understood that the least he could do to repay the favor was to pretend his life wasn’t so miserable. So he joins his older brother and becomes the perfect son, the perfect clan member. Thoughtful, strong, determined…

They still don’t talk as much as they should, but at least Hanzo has recently shown him a picture of Misaki and the Sparrow congratulates his older brother - although little does he know that the last thing his brother wants is to be congratulated.

Five years.

Five years until their wedding day becomes a reality. Five years until his last dream dies.

Such a slow agony for the soul… The period of time he’s meant to wait seems capricious and inconclusive: is it too long? Is it too short? What’s life going to be like in five years’ time? Will he change during those years? He breathes out and realizes that, for example, five years ago he was entering legal adulthood. Five years ago he was welcoming sex as yet another part of his life - a part finally dispossessed of the nightmares and the trauma.

His silent tribulations don’t reach the Sparrow. His younger brother is staring intently at him, as if trying to deconstruct his every thought with nothing but the powerful magnet of his eyes.

But then he looks down, and Hanzo knows that even if his brother is trying his best, he’s clearly losing the battle. He’s becoming a machine: the perfect clan assassin during the day, the perfect playboy during the night. Excesses are knocking on his door again and the heir worries once more - he almost lost him once, not so long ago…

“Some of the elders saw me the other night, making out with a guy.” The Sparrow says and Hanzo shrugs his shoulders in a rather innocent manner - they all know Genji has been with both boys and girls.

But the heir has once more misinterpreted his younger brother’s words - Genji does not care about the elders, it’s the boy he likes the one that actually worries him.

“The elders have tried and will keep on trying to find arguments against you,” Hanzo says, “But father knows, so you’ll be fine. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Only there is - and his brother is not asking for his opinion as future kumicho. He just wants him to listen.

“I like him.” The words are so simple yet they carry so much meaning that the heir doesn’t know what to say in response. “I really like him.”

“Well, of course you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t be with him in the first place.”

Genji doesn’t want to fight, that’s why he doesn’t ask his older brother how he of all people could say such a thing. He, the one who was being forced to watch Misaki, a woman that means nothing to him, grow under the inescapable scrutiny of the doctrine in order to become his wife.

The heir fails to see the whirlpool of questions assaulting the Sparrow. He fails to see that his younger brother is feeling something he has never felt before.

Genji smiles, ending the conversation. Then he pats Hanzo on the shoulder, and leaves.

* * *

 

**2064**

_(Hanzo: 26 / Genji: 23 / Misaki: 14)_

The elders only offer him their most serious faces today, as they summon the heir alone. It’s not the first time they seek his company - it’s not the first time they try to talk to him without his father’s constant supervision. Three of them are waiting for him in a dimly lit office, the large wooden table separating them feels like a barrier.

They inform him that there’s something wrong with the girl. The heir asks them about her, then, he wants to know if she’s sick - and this sudden act of unprecedented concern surprises him until he realizes that, perhaps, that was the point of his annual visits: to facilitate familiarization as if it was yet another step in the seemingly endless path to systematic indoctrination.

She’s already fourteen, the elders say, but she still hasn’t had her first period and while it’s a known fact that age at menarche varies considerably between populations, they are visibly worried by this unexpected delay.

So they ask him, plain and simple, what he thinks about the possibility of not being able to provide the clan with a new heir. They want to know his honest opinion. They demand to know what he would do in such a situation.

The heir contemplates his options for quite a while but then he simply shrugs and says that if she wants to have children, adoption is always a viable option.

He doesn’t tell them that he doesn’t want any kids - he understands that becoming a mother is transcendental for some women and if that’s Misaki’s case, he’ll help her - it’s the least he can do for her, he thinks, after the perversion of all these years watching her grow, after dragging her down to yakuza hell.

That’s the least he can do for a woman he does not love.

The heir doesn’t know it yet, but the elders are about to teach him the most important lesson of his life.

“Adoption…” One of the elders says as he stands up and walks towards the heir, “Such a befitting answer for _half a leader_.”

It takes him a moment to understand the meaning of those venomous words and, for a fleeting instant, he fears they have somehow found out the truth about the ritual - but then he sees it, crystalline and unavoidable: he’s only half an heir because her mother was not the woman they had chosen for his father.

Half an heir, half a _bastard_.

Rage burns within him, the feeling directs his fists forward and so the heir punches the man in the face until the weakling lies on the floor, with his hands up, begging for mercy. But when he’s about to deliver one last blow, the other two surround the heir and reduce him, forcing him down on the chair again.

The man on the floor laughs, and rivulets of blood paint his lips. They throw her blood-stained panties across the table for the heir to catch. They lied, once again. There’s nothing wrong with Misaki. The lesson becomes evident: the clan will never accept an adopted leader - blood shall always come above everything else.

He throws away the garment, he doesn’t even want to know how those elders got hold of such an item. His stomach churns in complete revulsion, he feels sick - he wants to throw up.

That’s what she is to them - a trophy, a pretty little ornament meant to embellish him like an expensive tie or an ancient brooch. But underneath all that superficiality, absolutely nothing lies therein: she’s just a pan, a container for a future heir. A living test tube. But the leader himself is also made of shadows: he’s just a sperm bank ensuring the clan continuity - he’s the one that makes their dreams come true, allowing them to live in luxury and opulence.

A name to blame when things go wrong.

An idol to adore when power and money soar over the horizon like the only silver linings that can save them from the shitty lives they have to live.

“If your wife does not give you any children, you go fuck some other woman,” They say, “Do you understand?”

He nods but the dragon roars. For the first time, the man controls the beast, and not the other way around.  

* * *

 

**2065**

_(Hanzo: 27 / Genji: 24 / Misaki: 15)_

He’s waiting for Misaki to come visit him for a change as his mind drifts away and he realizes that it’s been long since Genji has brought someone over. The Sparrow’s multiple companions have become part of the landscape, always coming and going and practically owning the place, but now the parade of countless strangers has stopped.

But even without all of his partners, Genji doesn’t look lonely or depressed and the heir thinks that’s a good sign. After everything he’s been through, the Sparrow could use some peace and quiet.

Slowly, gradually, he’s also becoming more and more responsive to the clan's demands. Genji doesn’t protest now, he doesn’t fight back and the elders are pleased to see the boy finally changing. He goes on more missions, he gets chosen more regularly… they say he’s even getting better and better with the sword, perhaps, even better than his older brother.

Hanzo does not mind. He’s too busy tasting this unprecedented feeling of stillness, just as if every single piece of their puzzle was finally falling into place.

A new mission requires the Sparrow to get on a train, and go to Kyoto - and Genji goes, without saying a word, without rolling his eyes at them. He takes longer than expected to return home but the heir doesn’t mind: his younger brother has been working hard, he sure deserves the rest. When the ninja returns his hair is green and his smile is wide and toothy - he hugs his brother and says he wants to take a picture,

“My hair is green, brother, come on,” He begs, and the heir accepts, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans closer.

The Sparrow tells him about his trip to Kyoto, about the mission, about his duty - he even says he has met someone.

He says he’s changing, says he’s feeling better.

But the echoes of their laughter disappear in the cold morning lights as the place comes to life and the wind makes the curtains dance. The kumicho has died peacefully in his sleep and such a delightful death is befitting of him.

Now they are alone, they know.

Now life begins.

* * *

 

**2066**

_(Hanzo: 28 / Genji: 25 / Misaki: 16)_

Rehearsal time is over.

He’s a leader now. An actual one.

And those who mocked him in the past now fear him. Those who didn’t know who he was are now being forced to learn his name by heart - letter by letter.

They tell him that he’s beginning to change. That power is corrupting him. But he shakes his head, stubborn as ever, and denies whatever they have to say. But the truth is that he has already changed and those around him can sense the dragon taking over the man.

Misaki is afraid of him now. And no, he hasn’t hurt her, he hasn’t even touched a hair on her head but the girl sees the darkness spreading and she knows - when it reaches her, it will demand a reaction from her.

She reacts, or adapts or… what does she mean to him? She has two years to prepare herself, to become something she’s not, to meet his expectations. But what does he expect? She’s known that man for fourteen years now, how come she still doesn’t know who he is?

The girl decides to start by the simplest part: he’s attractive. He’s visually attractive. She could like him. She could be with him. But he wants a wife, he demands a wife - he doesn’t want her to like him, he wants her to love him. He is not interested in holding her hand, his body has walked long paths she has yet to visit. He won’t want to kiss her, he will want to fuck her.

The girl breathes in and breathes out, alone in her room, as anticipation quickly turns to desperation. Two more years until their wedding, two more years…

She has to be ready by then. She has to. So she calls him and tells him to come visit her and the kumicho, polite as usual, obliges. She has never kissed anyone before, she doesn’t even know how to kiss someone but she knows they expect her to do it right. So she tries her best, as she clings to his neck and her tiptoes struggle to keep her standing firmly against his frame but the man grabs her by the wrists and tells her to stop - he hasn’t come to steal from her these last two remaining years before their wedding, he says.

“There’ll be time.” He calms her, and the girl cries in his arms for she knows she won’t be ready.

He doesn't love her but he can’t deny a certain attachment. He’s watched her grow, after all, it’s only natural, he thinks. That’s their dogma - that’s the _clan_.

When he gets back home, they’re waiting for him. They’re furious but their anger is different - he senses the change.

“He betrayed us,” They say, “He betrayed the clan for Overwatch.”

He cannot hear the words they say, there’s a numbness in his head that he can’t fight. Their filthy echoes surround him as he moves across the halls. Perhaps that’s why his brother was acting so nicely lately - was he selling them, exposing them? Was he destroying their father’s legacy? More than once, the elders had told him that Genji was a liability, that there would be a price to pay for all his pointless rebelliousness - but this… he can’t. He just can’t.

They warned him. They told him to do something about it, to make his brother change, to force him to take responsibility.

But now the Sparrow stands right in front of him, and his hair is green, and his hands are in his pockets.

The kumicho asks him only one question: he wants to know if what they say is true.

The Sparrow smiles and opens his arms,

“Look around us, Hanzo - what more could they possibly offer me?”

_Freedom._

His hair is green, and there are a few freckles scattered on his cheeks, but you won’t get to see them unless you look really close.

He hears his older brother say that he has the high ground and he knows Hanzo’s right. Hanzo’s always right. Hanzo is the perfect son. So he won’t fight Hanzo. How could he fight Hanzo?

His father says he's like a small Sparrow.

His hair is green.

His smile is contagious.

It’s obvious and confusing at the same time. They haven’t really talked in ages - _why start now?_

His name is Genji. He loves to eat ramen with his brother, sitting side by side on the sidewalk, right after training.

His name is Genji, and while he barely walks, he dances on his tiptoes as his older brother plays the piano.

His name is Genji. His hair is green.

Most of his porn is animated.

When it’s done, the kumicho looks at his father’s sword - the same weapon from the ritual, cursed and bloodthirsty, forged by demons, wielded only by sinners.

_Are you happy now?_

_Am I good enough now?_

He gets on his knees, cuts off his hair and leaves the sword behind. Each symbol still represents the mystery of all those ones that are his no more. His hands... his own hands have left him on his own. His loved ones are a museum now and the dragon dies a little death, its iridescent blue fades away in the night.

His name was Genji, and his hair was green. His smile was contagious, and most of his porn was animated.

His name was Genji and he loved his anime.

His name was Genji, and he didn’t remember his mother.

His name was Genji.

But his father would always call him the Sparrow.


	10. Tilting at Windmills

Variations on a Theme

Act X

**Tilting at Windmills**

________________________________________

_“I do not deny that what happened to us is a thing worth laughing at. But it is not worth telling, for not everyone is sufficiently intelligent to be able to see things from the right point of view.”_

Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra ―  Don Quixote

________________________________________

**I - _Tom, he was a piper's son,_**

Night had surprised him with her absence. In a broken bed, ruined by their distinctive kind of love, the archer was having trouble sleeping on his own. He could have blamed her so easily… the woman had been trying so hard to become his anchor, she had provided him with a renewed sense of company, far and detached from the penitent loneliness that he was made of. But now, in the blink of an eye, she had taken it all away from him.

He could have blamed her so easily… yet he knew, deep down, that it was all his fault.

The archer got out of bed and let his feet guide him through Shimada Castle – the gardens, the pond, every single hall and corridor, eroded by time yet still magnanimous in spirit, welcomed the former kumicho as he searched for her. Every room became a labyrinth for him to explore; the kitchen and even the shrine were now temples of the most profound, impenetrable solitude as the man kept moving through both mire and confusion.

Until he found her.

The door was half-open, the unmistakable light coming from Genji’s old lava lamp – a souvenir from the Sparrow’s insufferable youth – was gracing her legs with a faint green.

She looked beautiful.

With her legs curled up tightly against her stomach and her pale skin welcoming the night. All hues belonged to her – the prism of light and color breathing life into her bones was a sight to behold. Only the arms surrounding her were not his.

The doctor was sleeping by her side, with her phone resting on the pillow, as if in some sort of a perpetual vigil, waiting for the cowboy to call her. Stepping timidly into his younger brother’s room, the archer stood in front of the bed until Genji’s artificial stare reached out to him from the darkness of the balcony.

The Sparrow was sitting on the railing, with his hands on his knees, as if eager to cheat death again – only this time, out of his own volition. His eyes were trained on his own bed - back in the day, the image of two ladies sharing a bed would have done it for him yet now, the true meaning and correlations of such an image seemed dispossessed of the echoes of a distant yesterday. As soon as Hanzo noticed his brother, he took a step back instinctively – he knew tension was pretty much the only element connecting him with his younger brother, and he didn’t want to wake up both Angela and Amelie with yet another completely avoidable scandal.

But Genji was faster. Always had been.

His visor, green and alive, addressed his older brother’s shape with a simple, brief spark – like lighting, ignited only to acknowledge Hanzo’s presence, but still short-lived and unmistakably temperamental. Darkness found him again quickly, as the ninja abandoned his perfect Lotus position and walked towards the heir, brushing his shoulder ever so lightly as he walked by him.

“I’m gonna go. Before you get the wrong idea…” The cyborg ninja hissed on his way out.

Warm skin against cold metal, Hanzo used his body as a barrier and stopped his younger brother from leaving. Eye contact was out of the question, yet the simple touch, the clash of textures was forming a brand new way of communication. Taking a deep breath, the archer let his palm land on Genji’s nearest shoulder –

“This is your room, you don’t have to go anywhere.” He said, “And you shouldn’t worry either. I won’t get the wrong idea,”

He could have sworn that the flashing lights of a scornful smile were beginning to shine brightly through each layer of metal covering his brother’s face – yet Genji didn’t give him any time to ponder about the nature of such a gesture. The Sparrow nodded his head in silence, removed his brother’s hand from his shoulder and exited the room, leaving the archer alone in his wakefulness, staring intently at the cause of his insomnia now dreaming away from him.

The archer felt tempted to sit on the bed but ultimately decided against it – if only Angela hadn't been there, sleeping with the ballerina, it would have been a completely different story.

Tempted by such a peaceful sight, the archer leaned over and brushed his fingertips lightly across Amelie’s forehead, but her eyes caught him in the moment, forcing the man to retrieve his hand before the French sniper could snatch it off her skin with her vehement disposition. Careful enough as to not to disturb the doctor, the former Talon operative left the bed and dragged the heir out of the room,

“What are you doing here?” She questioned coldly with her back glued to the door and her arms folded over her chest, but before the man could conjure an answer she pressed on, smiling bitterly, “Earlier today you realized there’s so much you don’t know about your brother, but the second you saw him, you snapped,”

“He provoked me,” Hanzo began as one of his fingers cruised before her, accusingly.

The woman shook her head,

“Just cut the crap, you’re so full of shit, both of you are,” Her tone, albeit immensely reproachful, was an ode to secrecy – they were standing in a corridor, after all, it would be wise to at least try to avoid any unwanted attention. “You Shimadas are so childish, you can’t make amends, but you cannot leave the other alone either,” she paused, the anger boiling up her blood was making her cheeks turn red, “You’re such cowards, you don’t have the guts to do what it takes to become a family again or to just walk away for good,”

Her moment of courage felt like a slap in his face, but he couldn’t blame her.

“My brother and I, we chose different things,” Hanzo whispered apologetically.

“That was not the problem, Hanzo, and you know it. The problem was that the choice wasn’t real.” She said, as her hands landed on his broad shoulders, her body leaned towards his, but not close enough to make him feel the proximity. She looked down, “You are a war waiting to happen…”

She caressed his face ever so gently. The man tried to reach out to her once more, but Amelie removed his hands from the sides of her waist and went back inside Angela’s room.

.

.

.

**II - _He learned to play when he was young,_**

Nobody knocks on the door. It’s an understatement.

People don’t knock on Shimada Castle’s main gate, never have, it’s unusual. There’s no-one waiting at the other side, it would be such a foolish thing to do.

Perhaps nobody knocks because there’s no-one waiting… But as the archer began to walk alone through the quiet maze of halls and corridors, he heard them knock – a sound he wasn’t used to, a sound he had never heard before. Even in the past, when the Shimada empire was still adorned with the golden ribbons of good fortune, no-one would come knocking on their door. Those ones seeking an audience with the current kumicho would surround the castle instead, trying to find their way in via a relative or an elder that could facilitate or arrange the meeting. Even those other ones, the ones in charge of juggling power and assets in the clan’s name would only come if the kumicho requested their presence – but still, they would not knock. Their chauffeurs would always drive their expensive cars around the perimeter for them to appreciate, from the comfort of their leather seats, the incomparable magnificence of such a fortress.

But now they were knocking. Someone was trying to mock all those old traditions, or so it seemed.

Hanzo approached the door with determined steps – his black robe danced around his ankles in the windy midnight hour and only then he realized he had never opened Hanamura’s main gate in order to let someone in – not even for Amelie. The unexpected visitors shook him out of his reverie and helped him see that even if the turmoil in his heart and the confusing voices in his head were giving him a hard time, there still was a world spinning furiously outside that door, a world that could not wait for him to make up his mind.

He recognized them as soon as he laid eyes on them - beyond the blood and the bruises, all across oblivion and the lethargic element that constitutes time. He remembered them immediately, sitting under their favorite sakura tree with his younger brother Genji, playing, listening to the most absurd stories just to pass the time. Carelessly innocent, back in a time when life was so much easier.

Meisa’s missing sons almost got to their knees when they saw the former heir – such confusion, such despair would demand more than a simple explanation, Hanzo knew. They hadn’t seen Sojiro’s successor when the heir and his younger brother were first deployed to Shimada Castle by Morrison, Winston, and Amari. They hadn’t seen Genji…

They didn’t even know that the Sparrow was alive.

He couldn’t hear the lament in their voices, or the convoluted words pleading to leave the confines of their constricted throats. Muscles aching from the effort, bones tired and about to give up. As the archer retreated further and further into the depths of his own mind, the desperate prayers of a mother had just been heard – her legs guided the old maid in the night, and her arms, wide open and eager to hug the ones she had lost, the ones she had not buried. Her daughters were running too, trying to keep up with the heart of a mother that had been forced to mourn strangers- strangers like sons, like her own sons, like Sojiro’s...

Arms like bridges, the communion of a reunited family broke the night with brand new colors. Nobody cared about their bruises and their wounds – the pain they all had felt had been more than simply physical. When their voices became but weakened echoes of a foreign victory, of a mundane glory over a common enemy, the archer smiled quietly to himself as he left them by the gate – they would have only a few moments of genuine, familiar intimacy before Morrison found out about their unexpected return, then the questions would begin, as usual.

_Three little boys are sharing stories under a sakura tree,_

_the sun boops the tip of their noses._

_Three little boys have died within these walls - but they have returned. They all have returned._

His feet led him to the shrine where Genji’s life had met its end. Seen through the distance and the caustic outcome of history, it was nothing but an empty structure now. Dispossessed of all possible symbolism. Sacred in its heretic mysticism, there were no guards to shelter the memories, no gods and no goddesses left to protect the pantheon of a broken destiny. They were empty temples, all of them, and each tale his father had told him, each creature sleeping inside his infantile imagination, and each actor in the ineffable play that was their life were milestones in a path that no-one had walked.

 _Coward_ , he heard, and the voice resounded furiously all around him. Could be his father’s, his mother’s perhaps. Hanzo looked over his shoulder, even when he knew there was no-one there.

“Genji was going to be attacked anyways” He yelled back at no-one, reminiscing the same old excuse that had kept him sane, or close enough to it, throughout the years of solitude and abandon. “I chose it to be by my own hand, I wasn’t going to give them the pleasure...”

He turned around, understanding that visiting that godforsaken shrine had been a terrible idea. Still, the voices whispered back at him, over and over again, until the visions of the past enveloped him completely.

_Maybe it was the sound of cold steel damaging something as fragile as skin what shook him out of his trance for good. Maybe it was the choked pleadings from his agonizing brother, as he slowly began to kiss away his life. Now that the nameless dark cloud that had invaded his thoughts and guided his arms had finally dissipated, he could see the result of his actions - the shape of all violence; the fixation of his every dream now receding and dying in front of his stupefied eyes._

_Shimada Hanzo dropped his sword as the laconic sounds of his weapon cutting through flesh and bone kept ringing inside his numb ears. Even if the trance was over - even if he was no longer possessed by that crimson, unquenchable thirst, those sounds would still not leave him. He stared at his own hands, fingers dripping with sweat, scarlet droplets of Genji’s wasted blood illustrating him. There was art across his body, the scales of a dragon that couldn’t fly any more and the solitary vision of a world in red. Dada. Mother, father, and even the woman from his ritual, his brother. Dada._

_Coward_ , he heard the voices mocking him once more _. We are not here to help you. We are not sentimental_.

_I’m not here to help you, son… remember?_

_In the pursuit of a legitimation that was never going to come, he had irreversibly mistaken the path he was meant to follow. Now those other memories were thriving, testimonies of his coldness, of his lack of interest, of his gradual punishment: he had killed his brother long before his blade had touched Genji’s body._

_Genji, not now._

_Genji, I’m busy._

_Genji, pay attention._

_Genji, stop it._

_Genji, you have to._

_Genji, it’s an order._

_Genji, enough._

_His brother’s last breath interrupted his torment, only to unleash hell as the tongues of brimstone washed over him with renewed ferocity. That final beating of his heart, anticipating that the fragile cycle of his brother’s blood running through his veins had been altered forever: then the slowness, the deadly laziness in that crimson stream slowly abandoning Genji’s body - then the final release, the definitive abandonment._

_He had murdered his own brother. He had killed his father’s protege. How was he supposed to become the head of the Shimada empire when the one he should have protected was now dead on the ground? How was he supposed to carry his father’s legacy when his hands had destroyed that tender boy his father had loved so dearly?_

_Flesh_ _of his flesh; blood of his blood._

_The heretic dragon had set his own church on fire - only the ashes of a lost paradise would be left for him to rule; an empty castle - the pantomime of a life that was simply not worth living anymore._

_Pureness and evil blended together, then, in the shape of his dead brother. It was clear now: seeking a misplaced greed he had ripped apart the skin and the blood of his own lineage._

_Hanzo leaned his back against the nearest wall as his knees trembled helplessly until his whole body, powerless, crumbled down. Then a dark thought set on his mind: what if it had all been a Machiavellian test? What if the elders had ordered him to murder his own brother to learn about his true priorities?_

_He was no stranger to this desperation._

_I’m not here to help you, son. Remember?_

_The clan was a family - everybody knew that. It was the number one rule for every member of the Shimada empire._

_So how could they ask him to murder his own brother - even if it was true that Genji had never shown the slightest interest in the clan’s activities, even if he was nothing but a spoiled playboy? Even if he had spilled all their secrets, even if he had chosen Overwatch… blood comes first._

_Cold sweat began to stream down his temples as scorching tears suffocated his vision: he was supposed to protect Genji; he was supposed to show the elders that family comes first - and he had failed miserably._

_He could never represent his father’s legacy now - he was a sinner; he had lost the only purpose he had ever had. And he had murdered his own brother for no reason._

_“You’re leaving traces of his blood wherever you go, son.”_

_“I am not your son.” The troubled Shimada spat venomously without even turning around to face the voice that had dared to address him during such a crucial, intimate moment._

_Orochi’s footsteps were light yet immensely heavy. The old man approached Hanzo and rested one soft hand on the young master’s shoulder – the boy flinched under the unwelcomed touch._

_“I did what you compelled me to do,” Hanzo spoke in a low tone; he wasn’t trying to justify his actions still the tone of his voice was stern, touching the fragile edges separating a simple statement from a crude reproach._

_“How can you be a good leader when you cannot protect your own?” Orochi removed his hand yet proximity remained a palpable, intimidating factor; impregnating the room with a brand new sense of awkwardness. “Tell me: how can you be a good leader when you can’t even make your own choices?”_

_Hanzo’s bloody hands curled up into tight fists and his fingernails began to bite through the skin of his already calloused palms – that man’s cruel words were confirming all his fears._

_“I didn’t have a choice.” He roared back._

_“Of course you did.”_

_Temptation invaded the young man then as he considered, briefly, the stormy chance of picking up his father’s sword._

“ _You planned this.”_

_Orochi, the most prominent voice of the council of clan elders, took a step back – he was old and wise: he knew Hanzo’s blind rage could shred him to pieces in a mere matter of seconds. Yet the man did not find comfort in silence: “Of course we did plan this: we provided you with a choice – a very simple choice. We never thought you were actually going to murder your brother.”_

_Enraged, Hanzo turned around and faced the man, his sweaty hands pinning that old body against the nearest wall: “Then why didn’t you stop me?” He yelled, brokenhearted, as he released Orochi only to cover his own face with his bruised hands._

_The clan’s trustworthy elder took a deep breath; taking advantage of Hanzo’s mental and emotional fragility to regain his composure._

_“I am not here to talk about what happened.” He began, his tone was distant but it wasn’t exactly lifeless either, “I am here to talk about what shall happen now. You and I – we are going to discuss the terms of your transition: I am positive I don’t need to tell you that after this, you’re no longer welcome here.”_

_Keeping his distance, Orochi paused for a brief instant to take in the image of the fallen leader – like a weathered monument; Hanzo’s crumbling figure was already speaking about an era meant to be forgotten._

_“You failed your test – your father covered for you, but we know how your coming of age ritual really ended,” The old man confessed, “The heir is dead, Hanzo, you murdered him.”_

_Hanzo opened his mouth, but no words came out._

_“Pick a weapon, you’ll need it to defend yourself in the future, boy, and leave.” The elder commanded._

_Knowing that he couldn’t stay yet finding it hard to assimilate Orochi’s rather simple request, Hanzo turned around once more as a futile attempt to understand what he had heard:_

_“Why don’t you just kill me?” He asked, his voice full of bewilderment and torment, his mind already caressing the misleading notion of his own life coming to an end after what he had done to Genji._

_“Pick up your Father’s sword and leave, Hanzo,” Orochi ordered. “I’ll let you keep it.”_

_The young man’s eyes darted around the shrine for a moment before focusing on the bloodied sword still resting carelessly on the ground. He walked towards the deadly weapon yet instead of picking it up, he spat on it._

_“That sword will never be wielded again – at least, not by me.” Turning his scorching gaze back to Orochi, Hanzo asked: “What will happen to the clan now?”_

_“I shall become its leader – you left me no choice, I’m afraid.”_

_A half-smile set on Hanzo’s lips then, the bitter conclusion to this never-ending nightmare now clear before his eyes: he wasn’t the only one corrupted by power. Laughter escaped his throat; the deranged sounds ricocheted through the room._

_“How convenient – and how honorable.” He clapped his hands together as the laconic echoes of his sarcasm lingered between them, then he grabbed one of the many bows decorating the walls and approached the man: “I can only assume I shall need this weapon in the future because you’ll be sending assassin after assassin for me. You have to know: I will send them all back to you – their dead bodies; one after the other, for you to know I am still alive so if you really want me dead, you should pick up that sword and kill me.”_

_Orochi’s visage became completely expressionless as he watched the young man kneel down before Genji’s body only to stand up again in a mere matter of seconds. As Hanzo approached the door, the elder’s voice rang inside his reddened ears one last, bitter time:_

_“I could never kill you, Hanzo, not even if I actually wanted to. I am not like you.”_

_Hanzo cursed through clenched teeth but didn’t turn around. He kept on walking. His body, filled with nostalgia and quiet desolation, already saying its silent goodbye to his beloved Hanamura._

_Wearying, deranged footsteps marched through the city, then, as his confused body meandered relentlessly: each house in that city seemed to have mutated into an unreachable fortress - each one of the places he had visited time and time again during happier, simpler times of his life were now incandescent, ignited memories of an existence that was his no more - each manifestation of his past ready to be triggered almost immediately, conveniently hidden under such benevolent masquerades: the name of a street that had once been funny for the young and carefree siblings, the intricate patterns of a vine climbing up the edges of old windows; even the synchronized dance of the traffic lights, getting blurrier and blurrier in the distance; the ever-ready neon lights adorning the stores facing the sleepy avenue - no matter if their doors were already closed, the old merchants would always try to sell something... or at least that’s what their father used to say._

_As the image of the city gradually began to forsake Hanzo’s tired sight, the stillness of the clear waters washing the shore seemed fresh and soothing just like the first dewdrops as they gently kiss the green grass with each new dawn. The troubled young master let his knees touch the still-warm sand as he leaned his torso forward, his chin nearly contacting his chest. He breathed in and out as if his mind was struggling hard not to forget the seemingly effortless mechanism still keeping him alive._

_Timid waves came to meet him, in their constant ritual of rolling towards the shore as an attempt to leave the waters only to fade across the sand. Hanzo closed his eyes as he rested his back on the deserted beach - stars in the distance; the sound of the clear waters and the perpetual rotation of the Earth had now become his compass as a brand, brave new world opened its abundant gates for a man with nothing to offer to step inside and find his way again._

_Rocked by the platonic vision of a seemingly forgiving astronomy, Shimada Hanzo finally found some rest, but when he woke up in the morning, reality was still there._

_The platonically romantic vision of the waters during the low hours of the night had little to do with the contrasting image of a virgin shore that clearly no-one visited anymore. Loneliness set in his eyes, then, as he acknowledged the fact that, unlike in movies or books, no gentle stranger would magically appear to save him from his predicament. No lovely ladies were there, eager to take him by the hand and lead him towards the light again._

_Love, he pondered briefly, the father and mother of all whimsical emotions, had always been a distant harbor he had never managed to visit._

_Love had made him wonder, once, what it actually felt like to be loved by someone else.  But it was a foreign kind of love; a love that was not his. It had happened one February afternoon, right after one of his many training sessions. He was headed for the bathing area, back in his beloved Hanamura, when he saw them: his younger brother Genji and a girl, chatting carelessly under a lonely Sakura tree. The sight per se wasn’t all that peculiar: Hanzo was fully familiarized with Genji’s many lady friends yet this girl, in particular, was trying so hard to express something else… he didn’t stop back then, yet it had been mildly impossible not to look over his shoulder to confirm his suspicions: as Genji kept on talking, narrating the adventures of his trips abroad and exotic conquests, the poor girl just couldn’t stay put – her body was moving; even if it was nearly imperceptible, her hands hovering midair, arms soaring, knees busy; the way her eyes were glued to his brother’s face; everything – everything about her body language was pleading for a kiss._

_She wanted to be kissed: she wanted to feel Genji’s lips on her lips yet there was something preventing the girl from actually asking for it. So her body, unable to contain its longing for the younger Shimada, was projecting all the right signs._

_Yet Genji didn’t kiss her._

_The archer had pondered back then why would his brother choose to pass the opportunity of catching such an easy prey: it was obvious she wanted him._

_Maybe; just maybe, Genji wanted her too. Maybe; just maybe, his brother had only tried to settle a barrier between that girl and the rest of the girls._

_Love_ _and its whimsical, capricious notions had been an unsolvable riddle for the archer back then yet now he was finally able to see it all too clearly: was she going to miss his brother? Mourn him? How many girls like her were out there – real companions; not just diversions._

_It saddened him to think that, if things had gone the other way around, nobody would miss him that way. Misaki was still pretty much a child. Nobody would be forced to forget all the visions of a future together, of a family…_

_Alone, lacking a future, those lifeless strands of onyx hair that had once constituted one of the many symbols portraying him as a warrior were now a phantom pain as his hands kept trying to brush a nonexistent mane – the warrior he had been, the one he should have been was nothing but a categorization he felt alien now. He was just too ashamed to recognize any traces of that ancient thirst, of that unfathomable spirit thriving for honor and blood. Now the ancient symbols of the man he was no more were as cunning as they were uncertain - who was this other man, the one he was longing to become? Was he a coward, ready to turn his back on everything and everyone he had once held dear and become less than a weathered shadow? Was he a loner, a nomad bound to wander the earth in search of something he couldn’t even begin to imagine?_

_The task was exhausting - how was he even supposed to embrace this search? How was he supposed to put a name, to shape up a need he didn’t know he could have? How was he supposed to search for something when he had never felt the urgency, when his whole life had been decorated by the luxuries of wealth and fortune?_

_What was he even supposed to be looking for now? Now, when he didn’t even know who he was supposed to be anymore._

_Resolute, Hanzo stood up and made up his mind: all that nonsense and uncertainty could not reach him so easily. He considered his chances: throw away his life or go back to Hanamura, and reclaim everything they had made him lose. They had trained him all his life to become their leader; a leader was the only thing they would be getting in return. A cold-hearted, impartial leader and his very first resolution would be to clean the clan from the hazardous threats contaminating it from the inside. He would avenge his brother, reclaim what was his by birthright; he would make sure his father’s legacy would remain intact, he…_

_There was no point in denying it anymore: they had played him like a small child; their simple manipulations had sufficed. They had dispossessed him of everything - they had even caused him to aim his rage towards the only real bond still connecting him to the real world - the world outside Hanamura._

_And now, that cold and lonely world seemed just too big for him to wander it all on his own._

“You must have been really broken inside,” Her soft voice brought him back to reality. Her hands were on his shoulders - daylight could not wait any longer. “for you to ever leave such a beautiful place.” The man turned around, exhausted, just as her hands descended slowly and came to rest on his chest, keeping him up, “I shall not judge you.” She said, “Not anymore. This man I see now, as he stands in front of me, is not comparable to that other man; the man you were before. This new you, the image of the penitent, the one I have chosen to follow, is all that there is to you. That is why what you did cannot define you anymore; it can only define the one that you were, the one they told you to be.” She stared into his eyes for a moment that felt like an eternity, then she looked down: the memories had devoured him completely. “The one you are now is only definable by the sorrow in your eyes.” Her fingertips abandoned the slight pressure keeping him up and moved up his chest, his neck, his face - traveling each line in his skin, each symptom of time.

But then she stopped, and her eyes assaulted him with renewed certainty.

“I don’t ever want to feel that way again,” Amelie stated, “I don’t ever want to feel like you can’t be helped.” She rested her head on his chest, a clear sign of peace, a hopeless attempt at hope.

.

.

.

**III - _And all the tune that he could play_**

He woke up alone, in a broken bed, unable to remember how the night had ended. The last image in his memory was her slender silhouette pressed hard against his chest, but after that everything was an incomprehensible blur.

Dark bags around his eyes were yet another symptom of his struggle. A pounding headache welcomed him the second he got up - that, and the loud knocking on his door. Begrudgingly, the sniper positioned himself in the center of the bed, covered his legs with the bedsheets and rested his hands on his lap.

“Come in,” He ordered, keeping the illusion of the leader intact.

Morrison walked in and sat on Hanzo’s bed - then he offered the heir a smoky cup of freshly made coffee, even when he knew the archer would have preferred green tea.

“So, what did they say?” Hanzo asked as he accepted the hot beverage after inspecting the cup for a moment.

Morrison stood up and opened the windows in order to let the light in - he wasn’t going to scold the archer for staying in bed, nor was he in the mood to ask him what had caused him to be in such a calamitous state.

“Not much,” Jack breathed, “They said they were locked up in some sort of facility, but they don’t seem to remember where, or for how long. They say they didn’t get a chance to see anything - no equipment, no machinery,”

“What about the guardians?” Hanzo stopped him, “I assume Talon must have kept an eye on them,”

“Regular goons,” Jack said, sitting down on the heir’s bed once again, “When I described some of Talon’s high-ranked members for them, the twins did not seem to recognize any of them.”

The archer scratched his chin, then asked:

“How did they manage to escape?”

“They are still in shock, so they didn’t give much detail. They said they learned their schedule and one night, they prepared to escape when one of the goons brought them dinner.” He paused, and looked down at his own hands, “One of the twins stabbed him in the chest with a kitchen knife, then they ran, as fast as they could - He says he feels as if his hands will never be clean again,”

“They were never involved in the clan’s affairs back in the day,” the archer remembered, “They are handymen, not trained assassins.”

“They asked questions about you,” Jack said, “those Talon agents, they wanted to know if you were here, in Shimada Castle, but the twins didn’t know, they didn’t have the slightest idea about your current whereabouts, that’s why they were so surprised when they saw you last night.”

“Do you think Talon knows I’m working with Overwatch now?”

It didn’t go unnoticed how the archer had chosen to say that he was working _with_ Overwatch - not that he was an actual part of it.

“Well, you captured Widowmaker, so I assume they’ve known for a long time now.” Jack offered, “I think this confirms our suspicions: if they are recruiting former members of the Shimada Clan, they are gonna need a leader. With the elders gone thanks to your brother, especially those in the council of elders, you are the next best thing. Talon has what it takes to regroup them, but they won’t be able to keep them together for long without the elements that they seek,” Hanzo nodded in silent agreement: he knew what Jack was talking about, “This system of clans relies heavily on concepts such as honor, duty, and glory; clans are families - they have history, they move together as one: a man with your name, your lineage, is the type of leader they need in order to function.”

The archer got out of bed and paced around the room, trying to absorb what he had just heard but Morrison went on.

“I think Talon kidnapped the twins because they wanted to get your attention. They wanted you to come here, they have always wanted you to join their ranks after all,”

“But I have always refused,” Hanzo interrupted him, crossing his arms over his chest. “They kidnapped the twins before we got here, and I didn’t even know they were missing until Meisa told me.”

Jack turned around, facing the archer.

“They didn’t want you to go rescue them, Hanzo, they just wanted you to return home and, if you think about it, it makes sense. We find out about Talon operating in Japan and they kidnap Meisa’s sons a few days after that, that can’t be coincidental.”

“Meisa had no way to contact me,” The archer retorted.

“They didn’t need her to contact you - we knew they were trying to find old members of your family clan, of course we were gonna come here… and of course, you were gonna come with us.” Jack stood up, and approached the silent archer, “I have reason to believe that _you_ are their target. Now, I don’t know how they’re gonna approach you, I don’t think they will just knock on the door and ask you nicely if you’d be interested in becoming their leader… Maybe that’s why Talon didn’t care if the twins escaped, maybe they needed them to return home for us to be sure that they’re here; learning your captors’ schedule is indeed a clever thing to do but acting on it does not require bravery: it mostly demands desperation, an emotion that every human being gets to experience at least once in their lives. Perhaps now that the twins have returned home, we should go back to Gibraltar. By bringing you here, we gave them exactly what they wanted, and let’s not forget about the fact that your brother and Amelie are here too.”

“No,” Hanzo refused, “With or without me, the Shimada Clan cannot regroup.”

“But your brother ended the clan, he killed every single elder - I hear the yakuza don’t take revenge lightly.” Jack said, “Especially if they think your brother betrayed them. And what about Amelie? Widowmaker was their creation, it wouldn’t surprise me if they at least tried to get her back.”

Jack’s last words conveyed a whole new concern for the archer: he had a promise to keep, he had told her he wouldn’t let her go back to Talon.

“Do you think they know she’s here, do you think they know about us?” Hanzo asked, but all Jack had to offer was a simple shrug of his broad shoulders, subtly letting him know that the former Strike-Commander of Overwatch had no clue. “I’ll stay here,” Hanzo affirmed, “And I would like Amelie to stay with me. Talon won’t attack us here, I’m positive – but if they do, I will protect her.”

* * *

 

After an entire day completely dedicated to long, silent hours of training, dinner went smoothly for the agents, especially considering the fact that it was the first time the group was sharing a moment together after the cowboy’s unexpected departure.  But right after dinner, like every Sunday night ever since arriving in Hanamura, the cyborg ninja left Shimada Castle without any sort of explanation. His momentary absence, however, did not awaken any questions – it only helped reveal the real dynamics inside each inner circle.

While Satya chose to sit next to the Omnic monk outside in the beautiful gardens, Angela and Amelie went back to the Sparrow’s bedroom, ready to call it a night. With a bittersweet smirk plastered on his face, the archer was left with no other choice but to accept the fact that another lonely night was coming his way.

As an act of pure companionship, Jack decided to stay with him a while longer. He didn’t want to intrude, least of all give advice about the matters of the heart because he could still remember the last time he had dared do such a thing, both snipers had enjoyed a rather scandalous sex marathon that ended up lasting for a little more than forty-eight hours.

If Jack had to be honest with himself, Hanzo was the most complex man he had ever met. Given the archer’s twisted history, the soldier was awestruck by his determination. Any weaker man would have chosen to die, to give up on everyone and everything – still Hanzo seemed determined to fight, he seemed more than eager to face the struggle.

The old man would never say it out loud – but Hanzo had now become the one he would always choose every time something was to be discussed or decided. A battle buddy, like Amelie would often say.

They weren’t exactly friends neither were they mere acquaintances, they would not talk about their lives neither the weather, but having the archer around made him feel better. His was a voice to be heard – a manufactured leader, just like he was, a connoisseur of tactics, a child of discipline, exactly like him.

An equal, who had made terrible mistakes, exactly like him.

A lone wolf, now forced to work with others in order to survive the mirages of a blinding yesterday. For the archer, it was the memory of his brother. For the soldier, the disheartening thoughts about that long-lost friend…

They weren’t friends, neither were they acquittances.

But sake helped.

Until those crimson screams of violence shook them out of their reverie. Both men stood up and ran towards the kitchen, and there they saw it: Meisa was dead. Her throat had been sliced open and torrents of her blood were now streaming down the kitchen counter, and pooling around their feet. One of the twins, as if hypnotized, was stabbing his mother’s dead body with a kitchen knife, completely unable to acknowledge the fact that the woman was already long gone. The other twin had cornered his oldest sister against the wall, pinning her arms over her head. Morrison sprinted towards him, pushing him to the side and allowing the woman some space to maneuver – but she, completely stunned by the unthinkable scene, was unable to react.

Hanzo stepped inside the kitchen only to be faced by the gruesome recreation of his own past: a shattered family, murdering bonds that should have stayed alive. He called out her name, trying to encourage the woman to move towards him as Morrison busied himself, having found Meisa’s younger daughters hiding under the table. The ex-vigilante extended one of his hands for the girls to reach out – unlike their eldest sister, they left their hiding place and ran towards Jack, who sheltered them with his body until they were safe, outside the kitchen.  

“Find Angela,” he commanded, “Quick.”

But the shock was too much for the last woman to take a step forward. Her vacant stare was lost in the gruesome image of her own brother, butchering their mother’s corpse.

Understanding that she was completely unable to move, Hanzo walked towards the woman. His hand, still offered to her, was eager to find her. But his proximity was not helping her – the woman was shaking, her back still glued to the wall. Jack crouched down and moved around the kitchen counter until he positioned himself behind the seemingly hypnotized twin – then he stood up as silently as he could and put his hands around the man’s neck.

Sensing the former vigilante’s presence, the man turned around and buried his knife in Jack’s nearest shoulder, causing the old man to writhe in pain. Startled, Hanzo divided his attention minutely – both Jack and Meisa’s eldest daughter needed his help now.

Completely unarmed, the archer sprinted towards the woman and took her hand in his, forcing her body to move forward. Now that he had her with him, the man kept running for the door, but before she could make it, the second twin called out for the archer,

“Talon could restore your family’s empire,”

The first time they met, _she_ had said those exact same words to him. Back then, it had been just another invitation from the terrorist organization, and a rather alluring one if he had to be honest, wrapped up in cold, blue skin and golden eyes. Sophisticated and tempting.

The twins had endured the same torture that Amelie had endured back in the day. They had murdered their own mother, just like the Frenchwoman had murdered her own husband.

Frozen in place, Hanzo felt the heavy weight of the woman’s body falling limply against his chest. His mind had tricked him, providing the other twin with the necessary window of opportunity to throw a knife in the woman’s direction, burying it in her back. As she began to collapse, rivers of blood were streaming down her mouth – her eyes were closed and her skin, so cold and so pale…

He could hear Jack calling out his name, commanding him to react. As the old man kept on fighting for his life, with his hands coated in his own blood, and his fists, furiously punching his attacker.

The archer laid the woman on the ground and dodged the incoming attack in the blink of an eye, his combat reflexes intact and ready to fight back. With one swift moment, Hanzo got to his feet and reduced the man. Nearly breathless, Jack smashed the twin’s head against the kitchen sink, finishing him instantly while Hanzo retrieved the knife from his attacker, and plunged it into the twin’s neck.

By the time Angela arrived, the scene of a bloody massacre was fully painted for her eyes to see. Meisa, her eldest daughter, and her twin sons were dead. Jack was injured, and Hanzo still had his hands around the blade that had ended the second twin’s life.

She tended to Jack’s wound carefully, dressing up the laceration with her usual celerity, then moved towards the archer to confirm that the man wasn’t hurt.

“Now we know two things for sure,” The archer whispered as the Swiss doctor patted him gently on the shoulder. “Meisa wasn’t involved, and Talon knows that Amelie is here. He said the exact same words Widowmaker said to me the first time we met: _Talon could restore your family’s empire_.”

“What did you tell her back then?” Jack asked.

“ _But at what cost_?” The archer remembered, “ _This_ is the cost.”

 .

.

.

 **IV** **- _Was 'over the hills and far away';_**

It was naïve of him to think she would be there by his side the moment he opened his eyes. Sneaky as she was, there was no such thing as certain with a woman like her.

The cowboy stretched his arms over his head after a nap that had gone for far too long. He got out of bed and opened the window to realize sunset was already history – the dark night had already enveloped the outskirts of the city in its obsidian blanket.

He checked his phone – thirty-two missed calls from Angela, zero from the cyborg ninja. Sunday nights were meant to be lonely, or so it seemed.

He tried to watch the TV, but the language barrier was truly impassable. Then he sat on the bed again, as his eyes inspected the small room for any clues indicating that the hacker would be back – a note, a message of some kind, even a small purple skull painted on the wall.

Her absence was just as mysterious as her presence.

Instead of a note, Sombra had left him a bottle of fine tequila and two glass shots glasses in a silver tray. The cowboy poured himself a drink and raised his glass in silence before the aguardiente began to burn in the back of his throat, dry and persistent, exactly like her. Putting the glass back in its place, there he finally saw it: hidden under the silver tray, an old folder.

The first thing that crossed his mind was that it was unlike her to keep a paper document; her whole life existed in the ethereal domains of bytes and kilobytes. As he sat on his bed and began to scan the file with such hungry eyes, he understood that Sombra wanted him to read it – more than that: she had trusted him with the very thing she treasured the most: information.

She would never be as careless as to leave such an important item behind nor could she just tell him about its contents. Whatever was on that file, whatever he was about to discover, he could not learn it from her own mouth.

An unfamiliar name welcomed the cowboy as soon as he started to read through the pages: doctor Tom Beuhs. The man had left several handwritten notes at the sides of the document, complementing his ideas with what seemed to be unexpected break-throughs he had witnessed or experienced along the process.

Then the cowboy understood: what he held between his hands was the original copy of the document. Sombra must have gone to extraordinary lengths in order to extract the file from Talon’s archives, though deep down McCree suspected that the hacker had already digitalized the whole thing, creating countless of backup copies of it.

He didn’t know how often they would check the archives, didn’t even know if they were ever going to find out that such an important file was missing, Talon didn’t strike him as a sentimental organization – still the truth, evident and right before his eyes, was helping him see things as they truly were: she had given him the original copy – she wanted him to trust her, she needed him to trust her.

The cowboy kicked off his boots and poured himself yet another drink.

It was definitely going to be a very long night.

.

.

.

**V - _Over the hills and a great way off,_**

Under the bridge, there is a part of the pond where the waters are deep or, at least, deep enough to sit and relax. Even when his body was already clean, the archer found himself surrounded by the tepid, tranquil waters, as his tired back met the earth. Amelie was standing behind him, with a towel in one hand and a glass of fine wine in the other.

“Those girls are saying that you and Jack are heroes,” she whispered as she got on one knee, and left the towel on the ground. “Still, he looks as if he has seen the devil, and you seem to have chosen solitude, once more…”

He threw his arms back, behind his head, and reached out to touch her.

“Well, he still blames himself. He says it’s the second time Talon makes him look like a fool,” Hanzo explained, “Me… I just murdered Genji’s childhood friends, brainwashed or not. I’m no hero, Amelie.”

The woman sat behind him after resting her glass of wine right next to the towel. Legs at the sides of his body, she placed her arms on his shoulders as her digits began to massage his neck, drawing small circles on his skin.

“You really don’t know how to accept a compliment.” She said, “It’s heartbreaking, really. So fierce when in battle... so conflicted when no-one’s there to see your struggle.” Amelie wrapped her arms around his shoulders, “Your brother will understand – the only thing that worries me is that you might have created a brand new excuse for you to punish yourself a little more.”

The man leaned into her touch, resting his cheek on her forearm.

“It’s a shame, really, but you don’t know who you are, who you _really_ are.” Amelie went on, “And I think you don’t know your brother either - what he’s like, or how he feels… you grew up to be the one they told you to be, there was no real room for the real you to bloom. And the only example of a somewhat different type of life that you had was the opposite extreme, and it was bad because they said so. It had to be removed.” She let go of him, and took off her clothes, leaving only her underwear on. Then she joined him on the pond, “You were Hanzo Shimada, the future leader of the Shimada clan but when that man ceased to exist the pain inside of you was so strong you couldn’t even start over and find the real you… So you went deeper into seclusion, and that’s exactly what you’ve been doing lately, I’m afraid.” She shifted inside his arms, facing him.

“Even today, their teachings persist.” Amelie whispered, “I can see you still have a great deal of respect for a symbolism that is long gone.”

The archer contained her in his embrace, awestruck by the notion that even if Talon had sent her the cruelest of souvenirs for her to remember the one they had forced her to become, she seemed unfazed by it. Her own past didn’t seem to be a problem for her, she was completely over it. Hanzo was the only reason for the woman to worry.

“Contrary to popular belief, I wasn't born a fighter or a leader.” The heir said, “I haven't always been the warrior I am now – there was a time when I felt weak in my own skin, limited by it; a prisoner of my name instead of the king they thought I was supposed to be. There was a time, when I was younger, when I was merely intrigued by shadows, not suspicious of their unreadable shapes.”

She kissed him ever so gently, her hands were resting on the sides of his waist.

“One of the twins said that Talon could restore my family’s empire, Amelie.” Hanzo confessed, “And while Jack insists it would be best for us all to go back to Gibraltar, I don’t feel the same.”

“You want to stay here?” She asked, worried, and the man nodded his head in silence, confirming her suspicions. “Hanzo, can I ask you something?” He nodded again, “Do you still want to be an Overwatch agent?”

The archer smiled quietly, “If I had to be honest, I’m not sure I ever wanted to be an Overwatch agent in the first place – Genji played me, the night when we captured Widowmaker, but I’ve only been playing along ever since, trying to rebuild our bond… I never thought I’d find someone like you or someone like Jack. I don’t mean to leave Overwatch, I don’t want to burn all my bridges – but I still want to find my own way, and I believe this is where I need to be, at least right now. I want to be free, Amelie.”

Now it was her time to nod, “First the clan, now Overwatch – even Talon tried to lure you in… I can understand this thirst for freedom, Hanzo, even if it means I’ll have to let you go.”

“Actually, I was going to ask you to stay with me.” He surprised her. “I can protect you here,”

“I don’t need protection, Hanzo, I’m not a child.” Amelie retorted, letting go of him and folding her arms over her chest. “And what about Genji? Are you going to ask him to stay too or are you just going to forsake him again?”

“Genji’s been giving me a hard time, Amelie, and you know it.” He said. “But he won’t stay – whether I ask him or not. He’s already found his own way, and I believe I can help him from here, even when the Overwatch he spoke about in the past has little to do with this other Overwatch - the Overwatch that doesn’t care about good or bad anymore, the Overwatch whose sole purpose is to eradicate Talon. This Overwatch only seeks vengeance, Amelie – they don’t want to see their long-lost friends when they look at their enemies,”

“Can you blame them for it?” Her hand cupped the contour of his face and the man leaned into her touch, “After everything they’ve been through, after everything _I_ ’ve been through… I need to make sure they won’t hurt anyone else.”

“I can understand the need,” He said, cupping her hand in his, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll let go,”

The Frenchwoman positioned herself between his legs, her chest glued to his now, allowing her mouth to leave a trail of kisses across his jawline.

“How do Japanese people say _I love you_?” She whispered against his mouth,

“We don’t.”

The woman offered him a puzzled expression, but the man simply smiled.

“Honestly, it’s a cultural thing,” Hanzo excused himself, “You can ask my brother if you don’t believe me.”

She could live with that.

“Stay,” He said. “Stay with me.”

She nodded, but from that moment on, every single one of the words coming out of his mouth became a distant echo she could not fully understand. As he held her in his arms, running his hands all over her body, she began to feel intoxicated by his heat. Toying with the warmth he had to offer, just as if it was the most powerful aphrodisiac, she took off her underwear.

“If you want me to stay here with you, archer, it’s going to cost you.” She said, but the man only smiled against her mouth and shifted her inside his arms so that now it was her back the one kissing the warm earth. She watched his mouth move, still his words, echoing in a strange distance, could not be heard by her numb ears so she silenced them with a kiss. Perhaps it was the wine, or maybe it was the fact that he had chosen to keep her by his side; that he wanted to protect her…

Perhaps it was the fact that he was willing to offer her the keys to the church of his past for her to walk and explore freely, for her to make decisions, for her to act like she belonged.

Her knee connected with his crotch and the man looked her in the eye, addressing a pain that he wasn’t expecting to feel.

“Sorry,” She mumbled nervously, “I must have been a little bit too eager.”

But even when her mouth was apologizing, her knee kept on pressing until the pain became unbearable. Hanzo placed his hands on her wrists, trying to separate his body from hers but the woman was relentless. Leaning against his chest once more, her mouth devoured him – her teeth sinking on his lips, tasting blood.

He had heard there was pleasure in pain, but he was unable to feel it.

She shook herself free from the tight grip of his hands on her wrists and let her hands land on his chest. Her soft digits were now vicious claws, drawing perpendicular lines across his torso. Then her hands moved up, surrounding his neck. She kissed him once again, renewing the fire, as her knee kept on delivering the most agonizing pain. Then he felt the pressure smoldering him, her hands now circled around his throat.

“Amelie…” he somehow managed to say, nearly out of breath, but the ballerina didn’t stop. Her lips had sealed his, her hands were choking him, and the pain was already making his vision blurry. There was no pleasure waiting for him, the man knew instinctively – this was no steamy foreplay, no kinky fantasy: this was torture.

When he tried to break free, the woman reached out for her glass of wine and smashed it against his temple - his pale face, illustrated by crimson rivers of his own blood, was irrevocably imitating the image of a kabuki actor. He closed his eyes, feeling his legs getting weaker by the second until the pressure in his crotch subsided.

Then he looked her in the eye, unable to understand what was going through her mind. He tried to get out of the waters, but her hands dragged him down – she was no match for him, at least not in close quarters combat, but she had been wise enough to wear him out long before he could even notice what was really going on. Hanzo tried his best to fight back, throwing punches in the air as an attempt to find some space to maneuver.

He didn’t want to hurt her.

Couldn’t afford to.

But the blue electricity emanating from his arm was already speaking of an imminent danger.

He begged her to stop, but the woman kicked him in the stomach and the beast roared inside, the misty clouds that precede its deadly presence were already wrapping up his arm. One last effort helped him get out of the pond, but the woman followed him. Mustering all her physical strength, Amelie tackled him then sat on his back, keeping his head up with her hands.

He watched her as she reached out one of her hands and grabbed a shard of glass - he felt the dragon thriving for release, yet the man knew that unleashing the ancestral beast was out of the question.

It took all of him to hold back the mystical creature – he was certain of it: if the dragon intervened, Amelie wouldn’t live to tell the story. Blindly, he grabbed one of the many stones surrounding the pond and smashed it against her head right before the woman could pierce his throat. Then he moved her unconscious body ever so gently. He lay her down on the wet grass and sat down beside her, holding his head in his hands.

Then he closed his eyes, welcoming the darkness closing in on him, and collapsed beside her.

Far away, in the distance, Angela’s screams resounded like a siren.

The doctor kneeled before the archer, checking his pulse and asking questions he knew he could not answer.

She forced him to open his eyes and then he saw them – Jack and Genji, running madly towards the pond. Laboriously, he craned his neck and contemplated Amelie’s peaceful face.

“Cover her,” He told Angela, but the doctor only offered him a puzzled look in return. “The towel,” he indicated weakly, “Please cover her, Angela. She’s naked, they’re coming.”

Angela reached for the towel, keeping it close to her chest. “You’re naked too.”

“It doesn’t matter,” The archer’s words were barely audible now, “I’m sure she wouldn’t want them to see her like this,”

Angela leaned in and covered the woman’s body with the towel, then she went back to the archer, her fingers tracing the rivers of blood adorning his pale face.

“Thank you,” The man mumbled groggily.

Then he closed his eyes, and the whole world faded to black.

_._

_._

_._

**_The wind shall blow my top-knot off._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to those spotting the Kuroshitsuji reference. I just had to. Plus, the Kuro character that sings this song in Book of Circus is Joker - Joker is voiced by Matt Mercer in the English dubbed version of the anime. Matt Mercer = Jesse McCree. See what I did there? =)


	11. Project: Lacroix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This situation between us was quickly perceived as "problematic" by Talon. Many agents would talk on corners, telling the tales of the unthinkable romance between the mad scientist and the brainwashed widow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preliminary note: every single archive warning known by mankind applies for this chapter - Please proceed with caution.

_“We shape our tools and thereafter our tools shape us.”_

Marshall McLuhan.

_-_

_“Inability to distinguish between degrees of clarity: to lick the penumbra and float in the big mouth filled with honey and excrement.”_

Tristan Tzara – Dada manifesto

-

When I look back and think about this process as a whole, I’m not surprised by the outcome. Even when most of my colleagues as well as people in this organization act as though the majestic results they now see before their eyes are simply occurring by wild happenstance, I am inclined to believe that this – my manifesto – is an ode to those who work with a clear goal in mind.

Now, as they marvel at my creation, I feel the need to write this document for generations to come to know that is procedure is completely achievable. In a little less than twelve months, I was able to successfully complete each stage of this unprecedented process. There are some rather crucial factors that need to be considered, in case someone wishes to replicate this work in the future. I will give detail for those in need, not only as a way to ensure some sort of professional legacy but also to give testimony of my many mistakes.

There are some preliminary notions that need to be addressed before I begin: fifteen months ago, I was contacted by an organization (Talon) because they were interested in procedures such as brainwashing and manipulation of the human mind. I took the liberty of devoting three whole months to complete my research and to conduct small tests in various anonymous subjects. The first thing that caught my attention (and began to awaken my fascination) was the fact that most theories seemed to revolve around the concept of _conditioning_.

Conditioning, per se, is not meant to be a detrimental activity. It’s a procedure that, when aligned correctly with mental manipulation, can guarantee complete dominance over an individual’s force of will but, again, a clear majority of neuroscientists don’t consider conditioning a reproachable or questionable activity. 

To put it simply, conditioning is strengthening yourself through repetition.

My most genuine concern back then was to determine whether the successful completion of these techniques was an achievable reality or just a useless handful of theoretical postulates. Fiction seemed invested in the theory, but fiction can also be quite deceiving (especially in the eyes of a scientist) so I decided to turn to history instead. Many examples show that mental conditioning, brainwashing, and mental manipulation have been utilized in the past, especially in times of war but, in most cases, these techniques seem to go hand in hand with concepts such as propaganda and political social indoctrination.

History can’t seem to provide us with an actual example – most of the times, social behavior was molded by channeled messages broadcasted by the media. The results were only temporary, or simply bound to achieve commercial success. It is interesting to point out the fact that all investigation regarding mass media and the manipulation of social behavior derives from psychology. The very first theory in the field (The hypodermic needle model), for example, relies heavily on Behaviorism.

When an artist is performing, they are communicating. Subliminal or liminal, all messages have something to say, something that sticks around, something that doesn’t leave whoever is on the other side of the screen or the stage. Every message carries something more – even silence carries something more. Communication is indispensable – to think about communication without the psychological foundation that must always go with it is simply unjustifiable. It’s all meant to be connected: communication, psychology, and art.

The subject chosen by Talon made it possible.

When I first read about the subject in question I learned that she was a ballerina. This is no small detail: Talon had a rather poetic plot in mind and this woman was an artist. The fusion of the two elements made me think of Dadaism almost immediately – if Talon was looking forward to rewriting the Dadaist manifesto according to their own system of beliefs, they were definitely going to revisit the definition of art and, somewhere down the line, the very definition of an artist as well.

There’s a primal, egotistical agent in every performer. The body (the most representative and iconic element proving their existence) acts as a conduit – it sends a message, it makes a statement. Actors repeat lines that others have written for them, dancers perform because a choreographer is dictating all their moves… If Talon wanted to recreate the analogies of the essential poetic narrative by revisiting the concept of art, they had all the right reasons to choose their own artist in order to mold them. I merely framed the entire operation in a very distinguishable art movement: Dadaism. What they were trying to do was dada. What they ultimately did, was dada.

The following pages contain every necessary key to create that artist, every factor ensuring us that, when the time comes, they will perform accordingly. Three crucial pillars have sustained all my work throughout the process: hypnosis, drugs and surgery – their correct implementation and their orderly administration guarantee permanent results. I hope this work can inspire those who are still trying to achieve the impossible. You should know, however, that the price you must pay for such remarkable success is only calculable by measuring the limits of eternity according to the devil’s accountant.

Tom Beuhs – Psychiatrist.

Vienna. November 15th, 2067.

* * *

 

**Stage 1: The Performer**

The first and most important thing that needs to be understood about this procedure I’m about to describe is this: not all minds can be conditioned. If we keep in mind the previous definition of conditioning (the act of strengthening yourself through repetition) and if we agree on the fact that strengthening is a form of improvement, we must conclude then that not all minds can be improved.

Some minds have, literally, nothing left to offer.

While this might come off as a rather discriminatory, hateful assumption, I’d like to focus on the fact that choosing the right target demands real talent. This enterprise requires a conjoined effort: the targeted subject needs to be susceptible to change while the ones in charge of choosing them need to address the fact that some minds have already reached their peak. So, while I would gladly take all credit for my creation, the humble man in me needs to recognize the fact that I couldn’t have accomplished such success if Talon hadn’t chosen the perfect target.

Amelie Lacroix had an open door. Most people have one, if I had to be honest, an open wound or a traumatic experience that makes them permeable. When I first read about her I was shocked to find out that Talon hadn’t seen it. They wanted the woman to kill her own husband, but they didn’t pay that much attention to the fact that she hadn’t spoken to her parents in years.

If we take that (missing - vacant) paternal figure and place it as the genesis of her internal conflict, we have an open door right there, waiting for us to walk through it. If we take into account the fact that this woman’s husband is much older than her, we might as well assume that what she sees in him is that missing guidance she can’t find in her own father. The juxtaposition of roles is a very common phenomenon – when roles overlap, the mind simply replaces actors, compensating losses by simply bypassing faces. This is one of the most ordinary examples of transference as a defensive mechanism. I understood, then, that if we were to succeed, her first victim could not be her husband.

Every process requires a period of preparation, it’s only natural. I had already completed mine, but that didn’t mean that the target was ready to succeed – replacing victims became my goal: I needed to convince Talon that it was necessary to delay things in order to obtain the best results. This unexpected turn of events delayed the operation for a little more than a month.

I finally approached the target for the first time on the afternoon of February 2nd, 2067. Talon had informed me that her husband, Overwatch agent Gerard Lacroix, was away on duty. We set up a false audition and made contact with her in a theatre in Paris, but I was well aware of the fact that the chosen victims were currently residing in Annecy, so transportation had to be taken into account as yet another item in our seemingly endless list of needs and logistics.

Since I wasn’t working on my own that day (a variety of Talon agents were there with us, in the theatre, playing different roles such as dancers, technicians, evaluators, etc.) I formulated a small set of rules and distributed them.

The following information was available to all agents involved in the operation:

  * The target will be kidnapped but she cannot, under any circumstance, realize that she is being deprived of her freedom.
  * We will be replacing (as subtly as possible) small fragments of her reality in order to create a stable misdirection. She is not supposed to notice any changes, but she might feel a little confused. If confusion turns into mistrust, the entire operation shall be aborted immediately.
  * Once the subject is under the influence of drugs, nobody is allowed to speak to her but me. Not even on our way to Annecy.



I had already set my mind on a mixed procedure: conditioning, brainwashing, and mental manipulation were all going to play a significative role, all of them providing different aspects to the combination I was trying to create. Once the target arrived in the theatre I introduced myself as one of the evaluators as a first attempt to establish a steady bond of mutual trust between us – I offered her a bottle of water and stayed with her to make sure she drank it. Even when her pupils were visibly dilated, she did not verbalize if she was experiencing nausea or dizziness. The water, of course, had a combination of anxiolytics and sedatives in it. (Anxiolytics to palliate the effect of all those things she might find wrong or out of place; sedatives to make sure her mind wouldn’t try to fight back.) I excused myself after a while and joined the rest of the evaluators and the audition finally began. One after another, our dancers performed before us until it finally was her turn to dance. She was the last one to perform that afternoon – I was merely trying to give the drugs enough time to kick in plus a prolonged waiting period filled with nothing but sheer anxiety and nervousness always makes for a wonderful context.

Amelie’s performance was flawless, even for someone like me, who’s not a connoisseur of ballet it was easy to tell she was great. But self-confidence was risky, so we asked her to stay and repeat her performance, we showed her uncertainty and doubt, we made her feel she wasn’t giving it all, that she was not all that good.

Dilated pupils (compromised balance), excessive sweat (dehydration), slowed movements (disoriented mind) – the three fundamental pillars of a compromised, warped sense of reality, were playing in our favor. She was asked to repeat her performance many times – twelve times, to be exact. The thirteenth time, however, was different: we asked her to repeat her performance but, this time, we played the music in reverse.

In processes such as this, there must be a certain sense of challenge for the subject to interact with the environment. A compelling request – not verbal, not fully expressed but still there, lingering tacitly between the subject and their seemingly endangered goal.

When Amelie heard this music in reverse, it took her some time to adapt her moves to the distorted rhythm, but she eventually danced anyway. She undid every step in her own choreography, dancing in reverse and creating a dystopic, warped perception of the dance itself as a whole. The swan that had died during her previous performance was now resurrected. Her death was now her brand new genesis.

When I wrote the original report of that day, many people questioned why she had danced, they couldn’t understand why she couldn’t just figure out that something was wrong – they said: she could have just told you that dancing to music played in reverse is simply impossible. I reminded them that she was already under the influence of drugs, but there was something more: to achieve the best results, the subject needs to identify a clear goal and pursue it at all costs. Everything they do must contribute to the illusion of obtaining that desired, final goal. Amelie wanted to succeed: she wanted that role, she wanted the recognition that would supposedly come with it, and in order to get those things (those alleged rewards and gratifications), she needed to work. This simple goal was, subsequently, sustained by a variety of smaller goals: the need to succeed in the profession she had chosen for herself, the need to make her husband feel proud of her, the need to prove her parents that she was an independent, capable woman.

In every step of the way, there must be a clear purpose for the subject to pursue. The subject must always try to achieve that goal: a personal improvement, a final prize - that’s why the subject endures the tests and trials they find in their path. Since we are placed at the other end of the line, our job is to procure a friendly environment for them. There must be strange elements that threaten to jeopardize the very sense of reality, but the subject must feel comfortable at all times. Uneasiness, per se, can only be interiorized as yet another test but unlike a concrete difficulty or a given obstacle, it cannot be assimilated. A hostile environment that the subject cannot either alter nor modify because it is beyond their control will only distance them from their goals since seeking that missing comfort will become the only reason why they would choose to thrive and make an effort in the first place.  

We control the environment and we provide the goals. The subject perceives a false sense of autonomy when in fact, they depend on others. The goals that make them work have been previously established by others, the prizes they want to win are given by others. In a way we can say that the subject exists alone, the subject is but one, like a satellite, orbiting others that choose to keep them there, floating in their orbits.

The satellite-subject exists because others provide a false perception of gravity.

The subject passed out, as expected, before the song had ended. Our operatives collected her, and the second phase of the operation began. The trip from Paris to Annecy (by car) lasted for a little more than five hours, giving us enough time to work on the subject and prepare her. Just as I had previously ordered, no-one but me was able to speak to the subject from this point on.

Knowing she was going to regain consciousness rather sooner than later, I took advantage of her state and decided to add a small dose of crystal methamphetamine to the equation before the effects of the anxiolytics and the sedatives could wear off completely. This cocktail of contradictory sensations was the enabler I was looking for: desperation and euphoria, urgency and despair.

While many had longed for artificial intelligence in the past, I had decided to achieve the opposite: artificial emotion. We had previously recorded several phone conversations between the subject’s parents – Talon’s technicians modified the audio files, sampling and imitating their voices and reformulating many of their original statements. While the subject was still unconscious, I used these altered sounds to induce and trigger a nightmare. These familiar voices were the necessary anchor for the subject to secure a well-known, plausible universe for themselves. The environment must always demand action and reaction from the subject: it’s not supposed to be just make-believe; pretending is not enough. But guidance is a must at all times. The subject moves, they act and they react because we are the ones who make that possible, because we create (and sometimes even become) the stimulus.

For five hours, the subject was exposed to the following repetition of messages, played in a seemingly endless succession:

  * _“Our daughter has betrayed her own family.”_
  * _“Our daughter is not good enough.”_
  * _“Our daughter is a whore who has disgraced our family.”_
  * _“Our daughter is dead to us.”_
  * _“Our daughter destroyed all of our dreams.”_
  * _“Our daughter doesn’t deserve to be happy.”_



This was my first ever attempt at conditioning: I was determined to strengthen her through repetition.

The sound of her parents’ voices, lulled by the soft movement of the moving vehicle and channeled by the drugs in her system created a lucid nightmare she could not escape from, overall making her more and more receptive to the messages flowing from the headphones to her barely-conscious (but still incredibly active) brain.

Even when she finally managed to open her eyes, she was still unable to discern nightmare from reality. She struggled, trying to force herself awake but to no avail: she _was_ awake, but the nightmare we had created was so strong it was impossible for the woman to shake herself free from it. If you’re having a bad dream and you can’t wake up, what do you do? You fight. You pinpoint the cause of your despair, and you attack it. You point out where the monster is, and you annihilate it.

When we finally arrived at her parents’ outstanding chateau in Annecy, some aspects of my plan began to fall to pieces. I wanted her to recognize her surroundings, I wanted her to approach the scene with a certain sense of familiarity despite the impossibility to differentiate between simple degrees of reality that she was experiencing. But she gave me no time. She moved faster than us, went straight to the kitchen, grabbed a knife and hunted her parents down like a vicious, wild beast.

Many of the men who were working with me that day suggested we followed her but I decided against it. I searched the house instead, while I waited for the woman to collect her first victims, until I found a picture of the subject and her husband on their wedding day. I placed the photograph (the decoy) on the little coffee table in the living room and went upstairs, thinking she was taking too long.

When I found her, she was asleep on her parents' bed. Covered in their blood. Comfortably resting between their butchered corpses.

She had an open door: her parents. I walked through that door and with a simple combination of hypnosis and drugs, I had finally helped her close that door. Many asked me why she had fallen asleep right after murdering her own parents: since she was still inside the nightmare, I’m inclined to believe she attempted to sleep only to wake up. Others suggested she might have found relief and closure in the act of eliminating the source of her unhappiness – that was the first time we actually considered and consequently analyzed the chance that she might have actually enjoyed killing her parents, even if she was still trapped inside the nightmare we had built for her.

Talon cleaned up the scene (they even cleaned _her_ up) before we departed Annecy – we needed to make sure nobody could connect her to the gruesome murders. When they offered to erase her memory (a technology Talon had developed about a decade ago, with the invaluable assistance of a fellow colleague), however, I declined: I needed her to remember. To remember _something_ – vaguely, incoherently. The subject could not discern between dream and reality: we could use that in our favor. I forced her to take a good look at the picture of her own wedding day on our way out, the decoy I had planted in her brain, meant to create an imponderable doubt. She was barely awake, but I was counting on the fact that if she was to remember something, she would find that picture intriguing, to say the least.

The hypothesis that she had felt some sort of satisfaction while killing her own parents led me to believe that she hadn’t murdered them as an act of justice. If she had indeed felt that satisfaction, she had surely found a reward much greater than simply killing the monster in her dream. This was personal, this plot was not just a concatenation of events ultimately shaping up a story: the actors were more relevant than the acts they were performing. This was purely a character-driven story. And when a character dies and another character replaces them, finding parallels and connections becomes a natural exercise for the mind. The subject had already overlapped roles in her head in the past: her husband had replaced her father a long time ago. And if she had managed to kill her father, she was more than capable of killing her husband (the natural replacement she had found for her father) as well.   

* * *

 

**Stage 2: The Performance**

I knew the police was eventually going to find out about the brutal murders in Annecy. I wasn’t worried about it, we had been careful enough, nobody was going to connect those bodies to Talon, least of all to Amelie. But I also knew that such a crime was definitely going to make the news and the exposure was only going to add to the confusion that the subject was supposed to be experiencing.

We decided to use that moment of confusion to our advantage.

There was an unnecessary risk in waiting too long to approach the subject again. I had used a decoy and I had planted an imponderable doubt in her mind, the time was right, the opportunity was ours for the taking.

Every possible crack in her behavior could be explained by the circumstances. If she was to disappear, if her moods were to suddenly become erratic, people would just assume that the subject was in emotional distress due to the loss of her parents. At this point, the best thing that could happen to us, was for the case to go public.

A week after our trip to Annecy, I saw her again. It was early in the morning, the subject was accompanied by a young girl (presumably her husband’s only daughter, a seven-year-old girl named Bertine Lacroix according to the investigation provided by our research team). The subject drove the girl to school that morning and I intercepted her when she returned home. She recognized me almost immediately, in fact, she approached me, not the other way around.

At first, she asked me about the audition, but I could see her interest lay elsewhere. She was just trying to strike up a conversation, and she had found the perfect excuse. I didn’t know at that point if the fact that she had been able to recognize me so easily was a potential risk or not. I had intended for the woman to have a hazy memory of that day, but I had only focused my attention on everything that had happened once the nightmare was fully constructed. I didn’t consider the chance that she might remember how the day had started, with the fake audition and our first encounter. The audition had just been a setup, an elaborate excuse for me to approach the subject in a controlled environment, I didn’t deem it important.

She invited me to come inside and have a cup of coffee with her and I accepted mostly because I needed to find out just how much she remembered. But the person I found was deeply disturbed and plagued by many unanswered questions. She asked me how the audition had ended because she could not remember – she told me she had never passed out during an audition, it clearly embarrassed her. But she could not remember the music playing in reverse and I thought it was strange because she had passed out while the music was being played in reverse. She didn’t have any sort of recollection of such a peculiar event happening that day.

When I realized these distorted fragments of memories were the advantage I was hoping to gain from this interaction, I decided not to use hypnosis again. At least, not immediately. I needed the subject to remain as lucid as possible since I still needed to gather some more information from her.

I informed her that she had failed the audition, that the company had given the role to somebody else and she grimaced at me, a forlorn gesture taking over her face. She told me then that her parents had been murdered that week, that she couldn’t care less about the audition.

When she said that to me, I simply asked her:

“If you don’t care about the audition, what are we doing here?”

She hesitated at first, but I knew she would eventually crack under the right amount of pressure. I had done such a remarkably good job on the day we met that this time I didn’t need to use hypnosis or drugs. I simply picked things up right where I had left them. Facing her silence, I insisted, repeating my previous question many times under she finally said it: she needed me to make sure that the audition had indeed existed. She was doubting her own perception of reality.

She said she had vague recollections of a nightmare: she was back at her parents’ home, but they didn’t want her. She said the visions from her nightmare matched the scene they described on the news. She said she had a feeling she had murdered her own parents “as crazy as it sounds” but she wasn’t certain of it. Then she finally mentioned the photograph: she told me that, in her dream, there was a picture of her wedding day on her parents’ house – she said she and her parents hadn’t been on good terms for many years, they had missed her wedding, that photograph was an inconsistency in her nightmare.

I told her that I was no expert, but dreams were supposed to be inconsistent. Still, I could see her struggle, she was trying hard to remember something she had not fully experienced.

We went out for a walk after that. She told me things about her and her life, she told me about her parents, her youth and her husband. She didn’t mention he was an Overwatch agent. We stayed out until sunset, when she told me she had to go back home because her husband was surely starting to worry about her. I asked her if she had been trapped in that instability since her parents’ tragic passing and she nodded her head. It was perfect: she could go missing and her husband would just assume that the only thing driving her was grief. In his eyes, her erratic behavior was completely normal and, of course, justified.

We were standing in the corner, the house she used to share with her husband already visible in my peripheral vision. She stopped, grabbed me by the wrists and asked me if we could meet again someday, she said she wanted to talk some more about what had happened that day. I told her I didn’t understand why she needed to do that when she had indeed killed her own parents.

I was expecting a dramatic reaction, but she merely defended herself by stating that she had had no other choice. Then she repeated all those lines I had made her hear that day,

  * _“Our daughter has betrayed her own family.”_
  * _“Our daughter is not good enough.”_
  * _“Our daughter is a whore who has disgraced our family.”_
  * _“Our daughter is dead to us.”_
  * _“Our daughter destroyed all of our dreams.”_
  * _“Our daughter doesn’t deserve to be happy.”_



And she said the only words I was not expecting to hear:

“I know you were there.”

She wasn’t accusing me. She was seeking my help. I did not say anything to her, only watched her as she went back home alone until she disappeared behind that door. When I went back to my hotel room and began to analyze our latest encounter, I discovered a certainty that gave me reason to believe she was ready to kill her husband that very same night: I had told her the truth, I had told her she had murdered her own parents – but she did not fight that notion, if anything, learning the truth had planted more doubts than certainties inside her mind.

I had to make her feel as though she was still auditioning for that role. I had to make her feel it wasn’t over yet, that she was still trapped inside that confusing nightmare she could not fully understand.

I contacted Talon that evening, ordered them to assemble a team and meet me as soon as possible. It disheartened me to find out that Talon was not planning to keep her after that day, the just wanted her to murder her husband, they wanted Overwatch to find out about it but she was disposable. They would let her go with Overwatch and face whatever future they could offer her: a life in jail, a prolonged stay in a mental institution, Talon didn’t care.

But I did.

Once the audition was over, I wanted her to return to me.

Suddenly, the realization became crystal clear to me: if I was to succeed, if I was to keep her I had to set some ground rules for the whole operation to work.

  * She could not develop a sense of loyalty towards Talon – at least, not just yet. I would have to make her see that she was merely a tool to them, nothing more.
  * She could not see Overwatch as her own personal salvation either. I needed to maintain the illusion of autonomy I had procured for her, she had to feel as if the choices she was about to make were her own.
  * Only then I would become her only puppeteer. She was just too fascinating of a process to let her go. There was no Talon, no Overwatch – just my desire to continue to work with her.



I ordered the team to wait outside the house, I didn’t want them to interfere. The subject had given me enough reason to believe that she was ready to perform without the aid of drugs or hypnosis but if this was to work, I needed a moment alone with her. I stood outside her house (something was telling me she wouldn’t be able to sleep that night) and waited until I saw her approach her bedroom window.

I’ll never forget that look. It’s impossible to explain, and I could never describe what I felt with enough accuracy, but I knew she was expecting me.

She let me inside her house and covered my mouth with her hands. I understood immediately that her husband – an Overwatch agent – was sleeping upstairs. I nodded my head. The subject led me to the kitchen and there we sat in silence. After a while, she looked me in the eye and she said:

“I think this is about my husband. I think they’re trying to get to him.”

I was starting to regret my decision not to use hypnosis. If she had already figured out that much, the operation was undoubtfully endangered.

I asked her: “Who are _they_?” but she didn’t have an answer, at least, not a reasonable one. She kept on talking about her parents, specifically her father, but she seemed unable to identify who was targeting her husband and, furthermore, she could not seem to be able to join the dots and connect her father with her husband (at least, not consciously.)

I asked her then, once more, what was she doing with a stranger, why she had let a stranger into her house in the middle of the night. She flinched, cursed me under her breath and held her head in her hands. Time was running out, the target was still alive, Amelie was breaking down and Talon was waiting outside the door. The elements that had helped me that day in the theatre were gone. I was on my own – I needed to stretch the nightmare.

I told her that her husband was not the project. She was. I lied, but only partially: project Lacroix, to Talon, was about Overwatch agent Gerard Lacroix. To me, instead, it was entirely about his wife. The subject gave me a puzzled look as if she was contemplating her own importance in the matter. Then she looked up, looking more resolute: “I am the project,” she whispered, and I nodded my head vigorously.

I was tempted to give her an order, a direct command for her to obey. I decided against it, she was not quite there yet.

Many elements from the nightmare had survived: the environment was familiar to the subject, it did not present any hostility towards her, she could feel in control when in fact she wasn’t, and she could not point out that inside that familiarity, there was something amiss: the stranger talking to her in her own kitchen. I was only missing the impact of the messages she had heard that evening, if I could find a way to emulate those voices, the nightmare could be complete, but I didn’t have any audio records I could use – I was the only instrument I had left.

“Why are you here,” I asked her.

She didn’t have an answer and I pressed on: I grabbed a kitchen knife and put it in her hands, resting the blade against her fingers. The subject could have perceived my actions as hostile, but it was a risk I was willing to take.

The following transcription contains many of the lines I told her that night, while the knife was still in her hands:

  * You are here, with a stranger, because your husband did not protect you.
  * You’re grieving, and he cannot comfort you.
  * You cannot tell him that you killed your own father, he would never understand.
  * You cannot tell him that you killed your parents because he’s an Overwatch agent.
  * You fear he’ll hand you over to the authorities.
  * You fear they will lock you up forever.
  * You fear he’ll think you’ve gone mad.
  * You fear your own husband.
  * You killed your own parents because your husband was not there to stop you.
  * If he had been there, you wouldn’t have murdered them.
  * Why couldn’t he protect you? He protects everyone, he protects people, that’s his job.
  * He protects people, aren’t you _people_?
  * And what about your parents? They forced you out, but aren’t parents supposed to protect their children?
  * Aren’t parents supposed to be responsible for their children?
  * Weren’t you their child?
  * And what about your husband’s close friend, Jack Morrison? Where is he now? Isn’t he everyone’s hero? Why isn’t he here?



My only hope back then was to make her feel as if all those people were actively trying to drain the very essence of her prominence in the whole matter. Her parents, her husband, and even Jack Morrison had to be perceived as real threats trying to force her out of the limelight where she _belonged_ – this was her struggle, her grief, her moment, her _audition_.

After a while, she looked me in the eye and interrupted my repetition of simple statements. She said: “I am the project, but what should I do now?” and I understood it was time for me to give her an order.

An order, when placed in such an altered mindset, is a command that guides an action and demands a reaction from the subject. More than that, an order given to a conditioned mind, subjugated and strengthened by repetition, becomes a leitmotif, an echo forever rooted in the subject’s mind. Any order I could think of had already been adorned by a certain appeal – this woman trusted in me, and she didn’t even know my name or who I was. I had become an entity occupying the vacant spot in between a controlled atmosphere and a misleading sense of self-awareness.

I didn’t have much time to think about an ideal order, Talon had been patient enough. The first plausible command that crossed my mind was to order her to kill her husband, but I discarded it almost immediately: I couldn’t afford to be so sharp, it was too specific, too bold. The veil of confusion I had placed before her eyes was strong but, like most fabrics, it was still permeable - a command as accurate as “kill your husband” was powerful enough to erode her conditioning with sheer cohesion. I opted to order her to kill _the one she loved_ (a vague statement, I confess, a double-edged sword not worthy of accompanying anyone’s thoughts for as long as they live) and the woman grabbed the kitchen knife and went upstairs.

I should have felt proud that night, but when I saw her leaving the kitchen I realized I didn’t want to go with her. I didn’t want to witness the moment when her life became a meaningless recollection of moments she had not fully lived, I didn’t want to see her becoming a disposable tool in the eyes of Talon.

Professional distance is an ideal frontier I had crossed a long time ago.

While she was in her bedroom, murdering Overwatch agent Gerard Lacroix in his sleep, I let Talon know that the mission was completed. They rushed in and extracted me from the scene but they left her there, shocked and covered in blood. They didn’t clean up the scene, they didn’t care about fingerprints or evidence. They wanted Overwatch to know exactly what had happened.

* * *

 

**Stage 3: Art of the Performer**

My biggest concern, at this point, was to get her back. How to get her back. Since Talon had ditched her on the scene, the subject was now in the custody of Overwatch – and they were definitely going to try to undo what I had done. My little progress (little when compared to everything that I accomplished once the subject was retrieved) was too frail to stand their tests and I knew that the second she was free from the nightmare I had created for her, it was all over. I didn’t want to start over from scratch, that would have been a complete waste of time and resources. Also, I didn’t want to have to start over from scratch with some other subject – this was her project, finding a new subject would have been pointless.

I figured out I would never convince Talon to try to get her back if there wasn’t a clear reward for them at the end of the line. At this point, I wasn’t exactly sure what I wanted to do with her but I knew she had the potential to become something unique. Talking to several low-ranked Talon members, I discovered that the number one cause for desertion in the organization was a compromised moral. Many operatives were just interested in their paychecks, they didn’t care that much about Talon’s ideas or causes – but when compelled to act in behalf of the terrorist organization, a clear majority of these operatives would crack under pressure, feeling like they were “doing something wrong.” A compromised moral encysted deep in your own ranks is far more dangerous than any skilled enemy. This gave me an idea: I could offer Talon an agent that would never succumb to guilt: a sleeper agent, beyond all loyalties, beyond all morality.

In order to achieve this, the nightmare was supposed to continue. The nightmare was supposed to become permanent.

The subject was rescued by Talon eight days after the death of Gerard Lacroix. Overwatch had tried to reform her, but the pain they found inside this woman was something they weren’t counting on. Their efforts were good, but their reasons were stained by contradiction: why help someone who had murdered one of their own? To what end? Was redemption an option for someone like her?

When we met again, I did not like what I saw. They had changed her, _she_ had changed: this individual was fragile, she was unstable, and she was no longer trapped in a controlled environment.

This was the starting point for a new sort of relationship between the subject and me: it became imperative for her to transition from subject to _patient_.

Our first month was a rocky start for the both of us. I devoted most of our time together to therapy. I also began to write weekly reports for Talon, informing them of her situation and evolution. Up until this point, Talon had perceived her as a necessary instrument to define their own poetic, but now that the artist had played her role (now that the audition was over), they still saw her as a disposable tool. All the while, I kept on highlighting an innate potential that no-one but me could see in her.

She (we) had materialized Talon’s poetic, but I knew this woman had a poetic of her own.

The language was a barrier. My French was vague and her less-than-basic English was a calamity. Talon offered to pay for an English teacher but I declined: language, as a system, is a conduit in itself. I taught her the language myself, using the very definition of conditioning to mold every lesson – repetition to strengthen her mind.

I tried to establish a simple system of rewards during this period but the subject did not want anything. She just wanted to spend time with me. I became her reward – we would sit for half an hour and talk as if we were friends. She was lonely, helpless, and far away from home. Life as she had known it was over: her parents were dead, her husband was dead, and she did not have anyone else. In a way, I had become the only one she had – when she needed to talk to someone, she could only talk to me; when she needed to cry or laugh, she could only do those things in front of me.

This situation between us was quickly perceived as _problematic_ by Talon. Many agents would talk on corners, telling the tales of the unthinkable romance between the mad scientist and the brainwashed widow. This led me to believe we were lacking a system of penalties – rewards are helpful, but a reward without the contrast of a possible penalty becomes an empty panacea, not a real prize.

The penalty for her was the opposite of her reward: every time she would do something wrong, she would be forced to spend thirty minutes on her own, locked up in one of the many cages Talon had in their headquarters.

This system of penalty and reward worked well from the beginning, but in order to obtain the best results, it became imperative for me to establish two very different phases (or moments) that would take place from time to time: pause and reset.

Pause: the patient is about to make a mistake (earning a penalty) so the professional has the chance to stop them and help them analyze what they’re doing wrong.

Reset: every time the patient returns from the cage (penalty completed), the professional has to make sure they understand that this punishment does not define the subject. A penalty (just like a reward) is simply a momentary circumstance.

However, as weeks turned to months, I could still feel she needed to be close to me. At first, I thought she had gotten used to having me around but then I became suspicious of her true motives. When I opened up to her and told her that I could not trust her affection, she said that she had _exceeded her art_.

I want to take a moment to emphasize the importance of this revelation: she was able to perceive herself as Talon’s performer. She was able to see the strings behind the puppet. Her loyalty (towards Talon) was not yet developed but still, she chose to stay – not because she had nowhere else to go but because of me. Amelie stayed because I was there.

Now I had reason to worry.

Trying to confirm my suspicions, I told her I had to leave town. I said I would be back in a week. She broke down and cried and slapped me hard across the face, then she threatened to end her own life with my own pen. This led me to believe the following: that order I had given her the night when she killed her husband was still there, in the back of her mind. It was a hunger that would not cease to evolve – and now she was starving. And since she didn’t have anyone to love, her mind was ready to create a loved one for her. I was that loved one. I was going to become her next victim.

She was right: she had performed, she had delivered. This woman had given her all and now she had become the surplus of her own art. I had told Talon I was onto something big and now my own life was on the line. “Kill the one you love” was a monumentally vague statement.

She was used to overlapping roles: she had done it before, she was surely going to at least try to do it again. This was a behavior I had detected earlier in the process: the husband had replaced the father and now the professional was replacing the husband. Each layer (each new actor) acted like a mental bypass. The order was behind all those actors – “kill the one you love” had been big enough to hold generations of people. Now the order could not be retrieved because the actors that could have defused it were dead. Besides, “kill the one you love” was an obscenely wide statement: you can love your husband, you can love a friend, a coworker, your parents, even a neighbor. Love, per se, does not always require a romantic intonation.

I had failed. I should have found some middle ground between the utterly specific “kill your husband” and the scandalously vague “kill the one you love” – this mistake was giant, it couldn’t be undone. The order was now a triggered response that would always demand a reaction from her. She would overlap as many roles as necessary in order to create that victim. She could not bond with other Talon agents now: she was far too dangerous.

I knew her love for me was not real. I never doubted this notion. But her mind had gotten used to this warped perception of reality and it was too late to change.

I had fallen in love with the idea of her as my creation – with the one she could have become, with the whole concept of assisted, artificial emotion. But now it was much too late. From this perspective, the command should have been: “kill the ones who are trying to push you out of the limelight” – that way we could have found a simpler excuse to keep her around: to kill Jack Morrison. I needed the resources that only Talon could provide, and I needed the shelter of an ambiguous morality in order to conduct these tests and experiments. But it all had backfired. And I was next.

Cornered by the circumstances, I understood that the only way out was to make her unable to feel. This, of course, was only going to render her useless to Talon but I was certain this was the only way. If she became unable to feel she:

  * Wouldn’t pose a threat to everyone around her (but she would finally be able to bond with others in the organization.)
  * Self-loathing, guilt, and remorse could no longer affect her.



This second reason, I’ll admit, sounded like a cheap excuse back then, but it was all I could do to help her. I had ruined this woman’s life, the least I could do now was to exterminate the constant self-deprecating behavior that had taken hold of her.

We implanted a lock (a figurative padlock) in her frontal lobe to keep her from experiencing feelings and emotions. Contrary to what I had previously assumed, this drastic solution eventually became the very reason why Talon decided to keep her: a killer that cannot experience any guilt or remorse is worth the effort. The process cannot be undone – let’s suppose someone removes the lock: she’ll be able to feel again, of course, but that rooted order (kill the one you love) will bypass each actor, taking control of her actions once again.

From that point on, Talon and I focused on different aspects of her conditioning: they took care of the physical parts and I devoted myself to her mind.

They said she had potential to become a sniper – with some adjustments. The gold in her eyes was added to deprive her vision of any traces of photosensitivity. The cold blue of her skin is the result of a process that has slowed down her pulse in order to increase her accuracy.

Their only concern now was to determine whether she was able to experience fear. They locked her up in a room with several tarantulas and they just left her there. The woman did not scream, she didn’t even make a sound. When they finally opened the door, she had several bite marks on her arms and legs, but the spiders were all dead. When the test was over I asked them why they were so interested in her lack of fear – they said that a fearless soldier is the best type of soldier.

Still, there was something strangely odd about this woman: I had no reason to believe she had forgotten her husband, far from that, but she would never talk about him. It was like his memory could not affect her at all. To be completely clear: I wasn’t worried about the feeling of guilt that wasn’t there, I was worried she might have been repressing something ulterior. Gerard’s death had not affected her (Amelie was inside the nightmare, and Widowmaker could not feel anything at all) and I began to wonder whether this fact was now shaping up the perception she had of herself: she had killed her husband but she couldn't feel anything - not distress, not pity, not regret - perhaps this lack of emotions was making her question who she was now because _she should have felt something_. Every time she would try to stare at her own reflection in the mirror she would end up having a hard time, but did that mean that she could not recognize this cold and distant woman that she was now? Or was she able to recognize her but could not offer anything but complete indifference towards herself?

When I asked her about her thoughts on the death of Overwatch agent Gerard Lacroix, Amelie said that she “did what had to be done,” her answer led me to think that this colder woman was capable of a wider logic, perhaps this woman had already realized that Gerard was going to die, one way or another. This unfeeling statement could have been perceived as the first attempt at developing a sense of loyalty towards Talon, but I still had my reservations on the matter.

During one of our sessions, she told me that she was getting “some sort of thrill” each time she would take a life. When I questioned her about this (even when I knew it was impossible for her to ever experience something like _thrill_ or _excitement_ again) she said it made her feel as if she was still searching for something. This inconclusive quest can refer to the missing loved one that she won’t be able to find because she can no longer feel.

In the following months, I began to notice that she would no longer stare at her own image in the mirror. Shame and repulsion are emotions - something she was not supposed to be experiencing _at all_ \- so I decided to delve a little deeper: I had read in her file that Amelie had met her husband in a nightclub (she was one of the dancers) and, taking into account the fact that she was a ballerina, I could only assume that her body, as a constitutive element for her foundation, had always been a rather important agent in the construction of her ego.

For a woman that cannot feel, vanity becomes an empty social construction. When vanity ceases to exist, shame appears on the horizon, trying to emulate the guidance of a moral compass. Shame is a societal fence, a moral inhibitor. In a way, shame is even worse than decency. I ordered her to take off her clothes and lay down on the cot. About fifty agents walked in and followed my instructions (to walk around the cot and observe her in silence) but she did not seem to mind. I even ordered some of the agents to lean closer, to inspect her (to try to make her feel uncomfortable) and even to touch her - but she didn’t care. This woman is completely indolent. This woman still uses her body as a tool (a modified tool) while the rest of her skills rely on a constantly-evolving education. Everything about her can be perfected. Everything can be learned.

She says she wants a name. Says she wants a story for herself. Talon baptizes her: “Widowmaker” – an ode to irony – but I cannot give her a story. She still is surplus, she still exceeds her own art.

I ordered the agents to leave us alone after a while.

It was not shame was she was experiencing, it wasn’t repulsion either. It was something else entirely. I asked her how she was feeling, she smiled darkly at me (as if I could not see the irony of asking her how she was feeling) and said she was alright.

One day, as I tried to approach the situation from a different angle, I ordered her to masturbate and she said:

“I don’t feel _the desire_ to do so.”

That was a good answer, even better than what I had in mind. Physical pleasure is not an emotion so this woman can still feel it, experience it, and even search for it – actively. But her answer was not conveying the simple dimension of pure physicality. She did not want to touch herself, she did not want to experience pleasure. In an emotionless reality, the pleasures of the skin (neuronal electric impulses) are the only resemblance to an actual _thrill_. She was rejecting it – even when she had previously admitted that the same so-called feeling was there every time she would take a life.

She would accept this satisfaction (the approximation to an actual emotion) while murdering someone but she would not accept any form of satisfaction for the sake of her own, individual pleasure.

Several weeks after that I found her touching herself when I walked into her room. The second she saw me standing there, she stopped – at first, I thought she had stopped masturbating because I was there, watching her, (perhaps a part of her was now addressing me as a real authority and not just as a reward or perhaps she was expecting some sort of approval from me) but then she resumed the task, and then she stopped again. She repeated these actions multiple times until I realized what she was doing: she was placing herself on the verge of pleasure, but never close enough to finally experience it. She had created her own system of penalties – her own pause and reset. When I connected the dots (her inability to look at herself in the mirror, her despondence towards physical satisfaction) I understood that she disliked the one she had become. I was still her only reward, only now she was the referee deciding her own punishments. This system of penalizations she had procured for herself was, undoubtedly, her last association to a moral semblance.

She couldn’t stand the woman in the mirror because she couldn’t stand the woman she was now. She was blue, she was cold, she was unable to feel, she was a killer – she could no longer recognize the victim in her. Even her new name was an unwanted contradiction: a woman in love that had murdered her own husband. The worst part was the fact that she would forever be the one who had killed Gerard Lacroix. Even free from the conditioning, even free from all possible brainwashing techniques and even free from the lock in her head, keeping the order at bay, she would always be the one killing Gerard. This other woman was fictitious, it was a deviation from the one she was before – but this other woman was not real, this other woman was still Amelie Lacroix.

Technically speaking, Widowmaker doesn’t exist. Widowmaker _is_ Amelie Lacroix.

She has become a description without a substance. She’s just a shape with no real content inside. We have made her hollow, we have completely emptied her – now she’s like a glass: I always drink from this glass, but I don’t always fill it up with the same beverage.

Talon has become her reference – she follows them around and works with them ( _for_ them) but she cannot experience any sort of loyalty for them or the cause the organization represents. They are a simple source of company to her, they are the ones who hold the leash around her neck – the ones keeping the monster at bay, the ones who provide her with a false, albeit safe, sense of humanity.

Talon decided to remove her reproductive organs shortly after that – they said sex was only a distraction, even when I had assured them she didn’t have the slightest interest in her own sexuality, not even as a form of release, not even as a form of social interaction. Once she recovered from surgery I decided to add another prize to our system of rewards and penalties: once a week, I would allow her to dance for half an hour. The skill was still there, it was practically a sin to let it go to waste plus perhaps she could find some comfort in the activity, removing myself from the spotlight – I could not be her only source of comfort, her only reward. Not only it was too dangerous for me but also, I knew I wouldn’t be there forever, I needed to give her something else, something that was hers and hers alone, a reward that could always endure the test of time, a reward that could always outlive me.

The concept of “ _construct_ ” plays a big role in this environment. She is Talon’s construct.

This construct made by Talon (Widowmaker) is a woman that’s deadly but sophisticated, a hallmark of artificial perfection, a mockery of finesse gone wrong. She incarnates now the very notion of abhorrence as beauty, of unoriginality that doesn’t quite meet that what could be considered kitsch – she’s a signature trademark of science and progress, a new poetic – she’s pure Dadaism. Talon’s Dadaism. 

The fact that she still perceives me as her favorite reward manifests the idea of _love itself as a construct_ – the order lingers there, in the back of her mind, the roles overlap but she is not supposed to feel love, no matter if the feeling is real or not. She can’t feel love, but she has already placed me there, in the center of her so-called affection. Her love is a construct too, her love is a holistic construct – it’s a cycle of transfixed roles that does not convey any real feelings or emotions because she does not need real feelings anymore. What we have built here is an artificial emotion: we have created empathic approximations.

The fact that she thinks of me as the one she loves (the one she must eliminate) does not mean that I have failed. Far from it. She cannot feel, but she loves me - she _thinks_ she loves me. I have become the surplus in this brand new art. I have exceeded my own art. I have created the illusion of love.

Now, as I write these final lines and embrace my destiny as a man-manifesto, I understand this was the only way for this story to end. The husband had replaced the father, the professional has now replaced the husband. I look at those distant golden eyes of hers as she moves closer to me with such a false sense of intimacy it makes me tremble. I marvel at my creation. I am in love with the idea of her. She is watching me as I write these final lines, her hands on my desk – I am ready, for I have exceeded my own art.

I regret nothing.

She looks beautiful tonight, I’ll make sure to tell her th


	12. Do Cyborgs Dream of Electric Sheep?

Variations on a Theme

Act XII

**Do Cyborgs Dream of Electric Sheep?**

* * *

 

_“Here my tears are falling, Nastenka. Let them flow, let them flow — they don’t hurt anybody. They will dry, Nastenka.”_

Fyodor Dostoyevsky - White Nights

* * *

 

**I - Master**

When the screaming subsided, and the good doctor began to work her magic on her unexpected patients, almost every member of the team began the heartfelt procession from one room to the other: from the broken bed where the former heir of a criminal empire now rested, rocked by the irony of a love that had shown its darkest colors to him to the isolated room where the deadly French woman had met seclusion once again, after doing the only thing she had sworn she would never do again.

Almost everyone was now part of the endless parade of troubled souls still keeping up Hanamura during the lowest hours of the night. Almost all of them – all but one.

“Master,”

The voice, weak and adorned with concern, did not care about the artificiality of synthesizers. The element inside the shiny vessel was still intrinsically human, the shape was a mere riddle, only destined to fool their eyes.

“Genji, what are you doing here?” The monk greeted the student as soon as his figure became visible in the night. “I thought you were watching over your brother,” Zenyatta questioned him, orbs radiating yellow in the dark landscape of the gardens.

“I can’t,” the sparrow confessed, “Master…”

Genji sat down right next to his master but this time, he didn’t care about achieving the perfect lotus position or finding the right tone for his words to match the turmoil he carried inside.

“History is filled with them,” the monk began to speak peacefully after a while, “fighters that get lost after the battle, and no-one ever hears from them again; heroes that never get back home – but you did, Genji, you both did.”

The cyborg ninja removed his visor only to reveal the sorrow in his eyes. He knew his master was often cryptic in his teachings, allowing the mind a certain space to maneuver on its own – but deep down they both knew this was not the time for rhetorical verses to come out and play. Euphemisms were heartless in essence, but the scorching heat inside those broken eyes was still talking about a fire that had never died; the flame had endured through the lonely years of anger and misfortune. The monk still recognized the burning spark in those eyes, a tepid flame now almost dispossessed of the enchanting incandescence that had glowed oh so relentlessly so many years ago – but this brand new void, consuming nothing but ashes of a long lost bonfire, was different.

“I wasn’t there,” Genji lamented, “I could have helped him, master – I should have known something was wrong,”

“But you knew something was not right, didn’t you?” It was clear that the benevolent master had chosen not to dwell on the fact that the Sparrow hadn’t been home while Amelie was attacking Hanzo – it was Sunday night after all, they knew; Sunday nights always presented the Sparrow with a clear destination. “You never really liked the idea of your brother and Amelie together, am I correct?”

“It’s not that,” Genji defended himself quickly. “It’s not that I don’t like them as a couple – but given her story…”

The imperturbable face of the monk could have deceived the ninja – yet Genji knew his master like the back of his own hand.

“Your brother has a story as well,” Zenyatta said, “and you’ve always been a fundamental part of it – but since stories are not static tales forever anchored to our memories, could you tell me what is the part you’re supposed to play now in Hanzo’s story, considering these recent events between your brother and Amelie?”

The question seemed powerful enough to disconcert the ninja for an instant, but then he looked at the monk and said:

“I guess it’s just too early to know,” Genji knew his answer was premature, still he went on: “When Amelie wakes up I guess there’ll be lots of questions, and my brother is going to have to answer many interrogations as well. I think Angela has worked really hard tonight, and from this point on I sense Morrison will have to step up and do his part, as expected,”

Zenyatta nodded.

“But my question was not about them,” the monk indicated, “it was about you, Genji – your brother is hurt and you’re not there with him, you’re here with me instead, even when the fact that you are unable to stay by Hanzo’s side is clearly unsettling for you.”

“I see the irony, Master,” Genji retorted, visibly frustrated, “trust me, I do.” He rested his hands on his knees and took a deep breath – “I should have been here, but now that I am I can’t be… there.” The cyborg ninja paused for a second, cursing himself under his breath, “This is ridiculous, I remember when Jesse used to tell me that it was weird that Talon was not trying to get her back, I myself thought it was odd that she never had an episode like this before… of course she struggled at the beginning but then Hanzo had been there for her and even if my brother doesn’t know anything about love,”

“What makes you say that?” The monk interrupted him and Genji stayed there, motionless, “Why do you think Hanzo doesn’t know anything about love? Is it because of what he did to you?”

The Sparrow shook his head, even when a part of him wanted to say yes.

“My brother never had someone, romantically, I mean… I don’t know what he did all those years he spent on his own, after he left the clan - of course, he could have found someone, he could have an entire family waiting for him in some other place right now but I don’t think that’s the case,” Genji said, “But Amelie knew what love was, she was married – I don’t know what she saw in Hanzo, I don’t know how you manage to go from a loving husband to a former criminal who doesn’t know first thing about love,” he stopped talking after he realized he was at the verge of screaming, “So yes, it was odd, it was weird that a woman who was finally able to feel again would choose a man whose only purpose in life was to repress everything he felt in order to remain functional to a criminal doctrine – and even so, Angela would always say that Jesse and I were unable to see the silver lining at the end of the road, she would often say that we didn’t know how to trust people, that we were so used to chaos and drama that we had completely forgotten how to be optimistic about things,” he paused once again, and smiled bitterly, “Angela’s optimism almost kills my brother tonight,”

Zenyatta’s quiet laughter interrupted him,

“I appreciate the insightful reflection, Genji, but I’m afraid you still haven’t answered my question,” the monk said, “in hindsight, now, what is the role you should play in Hanzo’s story?”

Silence stretched between them, a clear sign that the Sparrow still did not have an answer.

“Now that Hanzo’s been hurt,” Zenyatta tried to help.

“Danger was always a constant parameter in our lives,” Genji offered, looking resolute, “first, as clan members and now as Overwatch agents, we are used to it, we know what’s at stake – it doesn’t mean we don’t take precaution, master: danger is always unsettling, it forces you to pay attention – danger is what taught us to be careful,”

“You think your brother wasn’t careful enough?”

Another moment of doubt.

“No…” Genji offered after a while, “I can’t blame him for trusting people after all.”

“But?”

The ninja smiled, “There must always be a _but_ , right?”

“You tell me,”

The Sparrow shrugged his shoulders, uncertain, “I already said that I should have been here, I don’t want to sound like a broken record, master. I know she would have probably attacked my brother anyway, but the image… I was just getting home when I heard Angela screaming, and then I saw Morrison running towards the pond and I…” he closed his eyes, “I knew it was Hanzo, master, I just knew. I thought he was dead.”

As one of the monk’s metallic hands landed on Genji’s nearest shoulder, Zenyatta’s soft voice reached for his student in the night:

“But he wasn’t – and now that he’s survived, you’re no longer _special_.” Genji’s wide-eyed gaze was filled with torment,

“I was never special, master…” he whispered, “Not then, and definitely not now.”

“Perhaps special was not the right word,” the master reckoned, “but there was a distinctive quality in you, I remember from your first days in the monastery: you could not find the human in you, but you didn’t want to be treated like an omnic either,”

“But what has that got to do with Hanzo?” the Sparrow asked, confused, as his master stared intently at him as if fascinated by the fact that Genji still seemed unable to see the most obvious of truths.

“Your brother is the one in your place now,” Zenyatta said, “he’s the one that’s weak, he’s the one that’s still breathing because of Dr. Ziegler’s timely intervention. Now it’s your brother the one who has had to watch a loved one trying to end his life, now he’s the one who will have to overcome the attack and find forgiveness in his soul – now it’s your brother’s turn to decide what to do with all these feelings in constant contradiction,” the monk’s voice softened gradually, “like you once did, Genji, when you overcame the attack and found forgiveness in your soul; you, the one that is still breathing because of Angela, the one who had to watch your brother trying to end your life, the one who eventually decided what to do with all those feelings in constant contradiction,” the Sparrow looked down, the words were lost in his throat, “the one who eradicated the clan, the source of your hatred, but decided to spare and forgive Hanzo.”

Hands at the sides of his waist, the ninja stood up and stared at the monk: he could understand every single parallelism between him and his brother, still…

“Ever since we got here, he provokes me all the time,” he retorted, raising his voice again, “it’s like he doesn’t want to be a part of Overwatch, he’s not even trying,”

The monk shook his head in silent contemplation, “You didn’t want to be a yakuza man when you were younger, you could have left this place, but you stayed until the end. Why?”

Only then the notion dawned on him, as the Sparrow sat down again, right next to his master, “I didn’t want to leave him all alone… and I guess that’s why he chooses to stay with us, maybe he does not want to be an Overwatch agent, but he stays because he doesn’t want to leave me all alone, ” he smiled tenderly, “now I know most of you don’t think of me as a lonely person, but having my brother around is…”

“Reassuring?” Zenyatta asked, and the ninja nodded his head silently, “you know I cannot exactly feel, my student, but I remember what it was like to have my brother Mondatta with me,” even if Zenyatta’s face plates did not allow the monk to show any traces of sympathy, the Sparrow could swear there were hints of an impossible emotion in the omnic’s soft voice, “when you say your brother provokes you, you must remember you are always provoking him as well – I believe this eternal quip between siblings is part of the very essence of the bond uniting you,”

There had been so many provocations in the past, Genji remembered. Countless quips that had gone both ways and that had sometimes transcended into proper fights. Many heated discussions and unpopular transgressions had taken place between him and his brother – ever since they could remember.

“Anyway, it’s not the same, master,” the Sparrow said after a while, “Amelie did not kill my brother,”

“And your brother did not kill you,” Zenyatta said, “I’m afraid you won’t be winning this debate, my student.”

Eyes narrowed, frustration was starting to get the best of Genji.

“I don’t think Amelie was trying to kill Hanzo,” the monk confessed, “even if Angela managed to create a softer version of the Widowmaker we used to fear when she was still working with Talon, she still is a deadly combatant: if she wants to kill somebody, she will kill them,” artificial fingers landed on the Sparrow’s shoulder once again, “same goes for your brother, Genji: former heir to a criminal empire, trained to become the perfect assassin… you were attacked by Hanzo Shimada: if he had really wanted you to die, you would have died.”

“I was saved by a miracle, master.”

Zenyatta shook his head,

“There are no such things as miracles, Genji,” the monk said, “you were saved by the best doctor this world has ever seen – but only because you _could_ be saved.”

“ _Could_ be saved?” Genji yelled, “he left me for dead,”

Resting both his hands on his lap, the monk stared at the troubled ninja,

“Did your brother pierced your heart with his sword?” Genji shook his head. “Did he manage to separate your head from the rest of your body?”

The ninja shook his head again.

“Was there a final straw? Did he check if you were still breathing?”

“In the end, he was just a crying mess,” Genji remembered, “I think he did not have the heart to check if I was still breathing,”

“Remind me again, then, who is your brother, the one who tried to murder you,”

An unusual question, followed by a simple answer.

“Shimada Hanzo.” Genji whispered, “leader of the Shimada Clan,”

“How many trained assassins leave their victims without checking if they’re really dead?”

When Zenyatta began to peacefully float away, the ninja stood up and followed his master:

“Unlike you, master, I believe Amelie was trying to kill him,” he said, “she didn’t make it, because this softer version of the Widowmaker you just mentioned did not allow her to kill the one she loves – but I also believe it’s only a matter of time until they get her back, master. And once they do, once they possess her talent for destruction once again, the real Widowmaker won’t hesitate.”

Zenyatta turned around and joined Genji once again as the Sparrow rested his back against a large stone.

“Morrison says Talon wants to recruit Hanzo,” the monk considered, “why would she try to murder him if Talon needs him?”

With warm tears in his eyes, the Sparrow whispered:

“To save him from the darkness ahead,” a deep breath, an inconsolable pause, “they were trained for that, they were made that way. My brother could have let me go, and still, the clan would have found me – they would have killed me, there was no silver lining waiting for me at the end of the road, master. Amelie could have spared my brother, but Talon would have found him all the same,” he looked down, finally able to understand, “it’s too twisted, it’s just too dark to be true, but we have never lived in the light. They taught us many things, but they were careful enough not to teach us how to speak.”

He stood up, “my brother tried to murder me because he did not want the clan to kill me, Amelie tried to kill Hanzo because she does not want Talon to contaminate the man she loves,” the pain in his chest was familiar, “they were clever, master: they taught us how to fight one another – so that we would not pay attention to the bigger monsters lurking in the dark.”

.

.

.

**II – Hide and Seek**

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Her voice froze him in place. One foot in the corridor, the other one still inside the heir’s room, Jack Morrison turned around and faced the doctor as the woman crossed her arms over her chest the way an angry mother would do when one of her children disobeys.

“Jack, I told you someone has to stay with him at all times while he’s recovering, even if to you he’s only sleeping, he might still need help,” She scolded him, yet the man stayed right where he was, “I told you he needed constant supervision and you said you would do it yourself so that I could go and check on Amelie,” the soldier opened his mouth but no words came out of it and the woman tilted her head to the side, still waiting for an answer.

“So why were you trying to leave him alone, Jack? Where are you going?” Angela insisted.

He counted to ten inside his head, then took a deep breath – then the former Strike-Commander mustered all his courage and finally said:

“To the bathroom,”

It was simple, it was easy, it was no big deal, but Angela still seemed to disagree:

“There’s a bathroom in there!” she yelled at him, tapping her foot relentlessly against the floor.

“I know,” Jack said as he raised both his hands, defensively.

“You think the leader of a yakuza empire wouldn’t have an en-suite bathroom in his master bedroom?” Angela’s deduction seemed logical, yet the old man only furrowed his brow and crossed his arms over his chest, mimicking her gestures.

“The toilet talked to me,” he confessed, ashamed yet resolute, “it _talked_ to me, Angel… I don’t like this room, I don’t like it at all,”

The heir’s bedroom was intimidating. Majestic in size and splendorous in everything else from design to décor but the incursion of cutting-edge technology seemed a bit out of place in such a traditional context.

“It’s not your style, I know,” she said, as she remembered the austere apartment they used to share until he decided to fake his own death and leave her behind.

The man closed the door and leaned his back against the wall. Then he leaned closer, even if they were the only ones standing in that corridor, and whispered:

“I just wanted to use a toilet knowing it won’t try to strike up a conversation with me while I’m at it,” he tried to excuse himself, but the woman was relentless,

“You should have called someone,” she said, “if you really needed to leave the room,”

“What’s upsetting you?” Jack asked her, still able to read her like an open book, “He’s asleep,” he told her as he broke the distance and put his hands on her shoulders, “I know what you said, Angel, I just didn’t think it would be such a big deal,” her impeccable half-smile surprised him.

“What you didn’t think is that I was going to catch you red-handed,” there was a hint of sympathy in her words, in the unexpected wink of her eye, in her rosy cheeks.  

“Fair enough,” he smiled back at her, struggling against his better judgment and clearly losing the battle, “how’s Amelie doing?”

“Sedatives are helping her sleep,” Angela composed herself, letting the doctor take over the woman as she stood firmly in front of the man she had loved the most as if he was just another stranger in her way, “Genji said he just spoke to Jesse, he told him what happened,” he nodded his head as he listened and paid attention to her every word, allowing the leader to take over the man, “Jesse will return in the morning, Genji told him not to travel alone during the night,”

“So, I assume we can all agree on the fact that we think Talon had something to do with this,” he said and the doctor nodded her head in silence, shaking hands once more with the opinions of the leader she had respected and admired during her first years as a combat medic. 

“He told Genji he has something to show us,” she said as she looked down, finally breaking eye contact, “something important.”

Jack moved to the left, attempting to resume his march towards the bathroom at the end of the corridor but an unexpected silence forced him to turn around again only to realize that Angela had yet to enter Hanzo’s room.

“What is it?” the reformed vigilante asked as the woman stood petrified, her back glued to the wall for support now.

“I can’t stop thinking about what she said to me,” she whispered, eyes lost in the hazy memory, “when we were in Gibraltar, before she decided to come here,”

Retracing his steps, Morrison joined her once more, shoulder leaned against the wall.

“What did she say?”

She looked at him, pain clear and evident inside those lovely blue eyes of hers,

“She asked me, in case something happened to him, if I would help Hanzo like I helped Genji,” her voice trailed off but the man nodded his head, showing his attention and encouraging her to go on, “back then I thought she was just trying to find out whether I resented Hanzo or not, but now I’m not so sure,”

The man sighed, inaudibly, and looked down.

“What did you tell her back then?”

“He’s breathing, isn’t he?” Angela answered, biting her bottom lip as the words rolled off her tongue.

“You think she knew something like this could happen?”

She turned away from him, unable to feel his hands as they reached for her and tucked her hair behind her ear. Distance was a safe harbor for them – the comforting proximity they could steal from these moments of shared loneliness was treacherous, they knew.

“I can’t say for sure that she knew,” she said, folding her arms over her chest again, closing off her body, “but perhaps she could sense something amiss, as the feeling grew stronger,” clinical explanations were all she had in store for him, “go find your precious, silent toilet, Jack, I’ll stay with him.” She gave up, “But don’t take too long, I want to write to Ana, I need her to send me Amelie’s old brain scans,” the woman watched in silence as the man disappeared into the dimly lit corridor, then she turned around and finally stepped inside the broken heir’s bedchamber.

More darkness ahead, the shadows in the night were surely frightening – and there he laid, completely on his own, in a bed made of shattered moments that were now indefinitely paused.

“How’s she doing?” his weak voice surprised the doctor and she finally turned on the small lamp on Hanzo’s nightstand. When she sat down on his bed, the creaking sounds of the broken structure ricocheted all around her, making her jump in surprise – the man smiled, for the first time that night.

“I thought you were sleeping,” Angela told him as she quickly moved away from the heir’s bed.

“I can’t sleep,” the older Shimada retorted, trying to get up and leave the bed but the doctor’s cold stare was enough for the man to understand he wouldn’t be leaving that room any time soon.

“I gave you enough sedatives to dope an elephant,” she let out softly as she sat down on the small, burgundy armchair right next to his nightstand, “how do you feel?”

“My throat hurts,” Hanzo chose to start with the most obvious part, “and my pride, as well,” he said as he broke eye contact, “since I was beaten by a girl,”

Angela laughed: it was hard to imagine one of the Shimada brothers talking so bluntly about their wounded egos, but she had been the chosen one - the heir was embarrassed, or so it seemed.

“I’m sorry to hear your pride has been damaged, Hanzo,” she said, “but I’m afraid there’s no medicine to fix that,” the man tilted his head to the side, addressing her presence with an exasperating grimace, all thanks to the sedatives, “and between you and me, you did not defend yourself, did you?” The woman let out a small chuckle before getting up again.

“What happened to her?” he stretched one of his hands and captured her nearest arm as she walked by his bed, forcing her to stop right where she was.

“I don’t know,” the doctor said as she leaned closer to him.

“Should I be worried?” he insisted, tightening his grip around her arm, “Do you think this was just an isolated incident, or perhaps something triggered her and,”

“I don’t know, Hanzo,” she interrupted him and watched as the man suddenly let go from her, “we’ll wait until she wakes up, see what we find – if she remembers something, anything…” she softened her words, trying to help him feel better, “I’ll ask Ana to send me all the brain scans we have in Gibraltar,”

She leaned closer, brushing the heir’s cheeks ever so lightly. Then she reached out and tried to comfort him, rearranging his pillows.

“Why are you doing this?” he whispered against her face, pausing all her movements for a brief moment.

“Doing what?” Angela said as she sat down on his bed again, in spite of the constant creaking.

“Helping me,” he took her hand in his, gently, “you did your job, you said it yourself: I just need to rest – so why are you here? You’re Genji’s girlfriend,” his voice trailed off, “I want to see her, Dr. Ziegler, I need to ask her what happened, I need to know,”

The doctor shook her head in silence, heartbroken by the sight of a man so broken up inside, then she put her arms around his broad shoulders as if trying to shelter him from all the pain he was feeling.

“I’m here because I’m Genji’s girlfriend, Hanzo.” Angela whispered softly as she rocked him in her arms with the tenderness of a mother, “and if Jesse was here, I’m sure he would be helping you as well,” the man closed his eyes, “we are not your brother’s allies, Hanzo, we’re not just his lovers – we are his family, and by extension, we are your family too. And since you’re with Amelie and she’s our friend, she’s now part of our family too,”

A family. A distant notion he could not even remember.

“That’s why you’ve been sleeping with my woman? Because we’re family?” The archer said, trying to free himself from the embarrassing chains of weakness.

“Your woman?” Angela retorted, resting her chin on his shoulder, “Such a possessive man…” she smiled, “it suits you, Shimada, and she suits you – that’s what hurts the most. And I’m not talking about the fact that you have similar stories to share, Hanzo…” her constricted throat was making it impossible for her words to reach the outside, yet the woman went on, unafraid of her emotions, “We are your family now, Hanzo, the four of us: your brother, Jesse, Amelie and I – so let us take care of you, like family.”

A family. A distorted repertoire of faces always demanding things from him. Always taking. Never giving. She was still holding him in her arms when Morrison entered the room – Hanzo cleared his throat the second he saw the former Strike-Commander and the woman understood that the moment had passed. She stood up and planted a soft kiss on the heir’s forehead, but before she could leave the room, the heir crossed his arms over his chest.

“Where were you?” The archer demanded as Morrison took a first step towards the bed.

“Your toilet talks,” the older man complained.

“Then mute it,” Hanzo fought back, grinning devilishly.

“I’m out,” The woman said, already headed for the door, “you’ll stay with him?” she asked Morrison and the old man nodded his head vigorously, “you’re not going to leave the room this time?” another nod, “Goodnight, gentlemen,” she was almost out the door but that didn’t mean she was gone, not yet, “make sure he sleeps, Jack, don’t keep him up all night with your conspiracy theories, he needs to rest.” The man offered her a puzzled look but the doctor did not give him any time neither to ponder nor to retaliate. As soon as her slender figure disappeared behind the door, the former vigilante turned around, and slapped Hanzo’s nearest leg,

“How are you feeling?” Morrison asked, clearly alleviated to know the doctor wouldn’t be coming back.

“Better,” the archer replied with renewed simplicity, “what’s wrong with my toilet?”

The older man pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, already exhausted by the topic. Then he sighed loudly, anticipating the embarrassment about to take control.

“The first -and only- time I used it… after I was done, it… it _thanked_ me,” his cheeks were turning red and he could feel the heat spreading rapidly across his wounded face.

“It’s a good toilet,” Hanzo mocked the man, clearly enjoying the moment, “a highly educated one,”

“Sleeping pills won’t work, huh?” Morrison slapped him in the leg again, harder this time, “Have you tried counting sheep? What’s keeping you up?”

A potential family. A broken bed. A paralyzed heart.

“I feel guilty about what happened,” Hanzo confessed, resting his hands behind his head and finally sitting up on the bed. Morrison rolled his eyes but he couldn’t hide the evident symptoms of empathy already clouding his eyes with the sepia-colored flashes of an irretrievable yesterday.

“Here we go, the story of my life,” he whispered and looked down, trying his best to stay afloat in a sea of intransigent commitments.

“A couple days ago, my brother and I got into a huge fight and Amelie was there, it was so uncomfortable – I have to admit I haven’t been the most caring, attentive man around,” perhaps that’s why they had become such good friends during their stay in Hanamura: Jack had never been caring or attentive, his lack of romanticism was yet another item in the endless list of things they had in common, “I couldn’t even realize that Talon had sent those souvenirs,”

“The twins?” Jack interrupted him and Hanzo nodded his head once.

“Maybe she felt it was like a message, maybe it affected her – the fact that we killed them,” the sorrow in his eyes was like a pitch-black abyss trying to drag him down.

“We had to,” Morrison reassured his friend, “we did the right thing,”

“But why did we choose to kill them when she was rehabilitated?” The heir questioned, “We could have killed her as well… also, if Talon sent the twins to remind her of the fact that they are out there that means they know she’s here, they know exactly where to find her,”

“Hanzo…” He was blind, Jack knew. The pain in his heart was blinding him.

“We talked about this, Morrison – it was weird they never tried to get her back, she was basically on her own the night when we captured her, it was as if they were actually waiting for Overwatch to come get her,” the archer remembered, “and the worst part is that, looking back, it was easy. It shouldn’t have been easy, we captured Widowmaker, Jack, she was supposed to put up a fight, but she didn’t,” the archer paused his outspoken elucubrations the second he noticed Morrison was beginning to drift away from the conversation, “what?”

“Where does your brother go each Sunday night?” The former Strike-Commander asked bluntly, “We all have noticed this, Hanzo – every Sunday night, ever since we set foot in this place, your brother disappears. It’s just a couple hours, granted, but we don’t know where he goes, who he meets, what he does…”

“What are you suggesting?” Hanzo inquired, unable to follow Morrison’s reasoning.

“Your brother recruited you for that specific mission: he wanted your help, he said he could not capture the Widowmaker all on his own – but the mission went suspiciously smoothly.” The older man explained, still, the heir could not believe his ears, “Now he disappears once a week, and you said it yourself, Hanzo: since Amelie and you got together, he’s been giving you a hard time,”

He had heard similar rumors in the past: Genji betraying ideals and bonds that should have remained untouched – he knew how the story ended.

“My brother has got nothing to do with Talon, Jack,” Hanzo reacted firmly, “in fact, I have reason to believe Talon was one of the many reasons why the clan elders decided to kill him – he told me: he was in the wrong place, at the wrong time,” he remembered, “the elders were aligned with Talon, and he found out,”

The doctor’s timely intervention saved the soldier once more as she stepped into the heir’s room and walked towards Morrison:

“Jack,” she reached out to him, demanding his undivided attention, “Jesse’s here, you have to see this,”

The old man looked over his shoulder, then back at her:

“I’ll be there in a minute – just let me call someone, let’s make sure Hanzo has someone watching over him while I’m gone,” Dr. Ziegler nodded her head but yet another figure became visible in the threshold – hands resting on the wall, the ninja stood in front of his brother’s bed, petrified by the vision of a broken Hanzo.

“I’ll stay,” the Sparrow said, “I’ll watch over my brother from now on.”

.

.

.

**III – The Saints and The Sinners**

The old soldier led them across the halls and deeper into the labyrinth of stone and wood that was Shimada Castle until he stopped in front of his bedroom door, and indicated the ones walking alongside him that they had reached their destination. The doctor and the cowboy followed the man as he traveled the darkness of his room, then he sat alone in his bed, facing the newcomer:

“Always playing by the rules and doing as you’re told,” he was serious, “we weren’t expecting you until morning, Jesse, I guess you learned your lessons well when you were in Blackwatch,” he shook his head and stood up again. He turned on the lights, finally, and signaled the doctor to join him, leaving Jesse all alone in the center of the room.

“Always nice to see you, boss,” Jesse retorted as he started to pace around the room, “I know moving around town this late at night is dangerous, especially when an enemy like Talon is out there, but I can take care o’ myself – and this couldn’t wait,” he tossed the papers he was carrying with the classical nonchalance that had always colored all his moves, “guess not havin’ this kinda information is far more dangerous than walkin’ the streets at night.”

Morrison caught the folder with a swift moment of his arm, then his eyes traveled through the letters scrambled on the paper – Talon file report N° 2589/3, Beuhs, Thomas. The name didn’t ring any bells.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“It’s a report, Jack,” Angela finally intervened, “I was just reading through the pages, but this is going to be an all-nighter I’m afraid,”

“It’s all fake, Morrison,” Jesse joined her, “whatever Amelie thinks she feels for Hanzo, it’s all a _holistic construct_ – or whatever the hell that means,”

McCree was already searching his trousers for yet another pack of smokes but Morrison could not look away from that old folder resting now between his hands.

“Angela?” he said, voice weak, eyes clouded by uncertainty.

“This, huh, this report explains how they made her, Jack,” the good doctor informed as she took the document in her hands and scanned quickly through the yellowish pages, “this is the step-by-step explanation of how Talon made Widowmaker.”

The blood running through his veins froze at the thought: not only they had ruined Amelie’s life, not only they had murdered one of his best friends – they had written a manual: _how to make your own monster_.

“Let me see that,” Morrison demanded as he snatched the file from Angela’s hands, “you read this already?” the cowboy nodded, but the doctor shook her head, “And you’re gonna pull an all-nighter to read this thing,” now she nodded, “I’m staying with you, then, we’ll be reading this together. Contact Ana, tell her we need those scans as soon as possible,”

“Already did,” she informed him, “files are being transferred as we speak,”

“Did you tell her what happened?” Jack asked her.

“I only mentioned to her that there was an incident involving Amelie,” both Jack and Jesse were staring intently at her as if expecting the doctor to magically solve every single one of their problems and predicaments, like she always did. The woman smiled at the cowboy but her words were only aimed at the soldier: “but I figured you’d want to talk to her yourself since you’re in charge. Once we read this file and once Amelie wakes up and we speak to her, you’ll be the only one doing all the talking,”

The dark and dense cloud of smoke engulfed the entire room as the smell of tobacco impregnated the atmosphere. Jack stood up and opened the window for Jesse, pushing the man slightly on his way back to the bed. The doctor closed her eyes and breathed hard through parted lips: she had fallen in love with the cowboy when they were but little kids, then the soldier had come along for her not to feel so all alone when Jesse decided to leave – Jesse had been the beginning, and Jack had been the end.

“Look, I’m proud to say I was the first to see somethin’ good in Amelie when she was still Widowmaker – I just want to help her,” the younger man tried to defend himself as he moved closer to the window, “I don’t want the woman to suffer, she’s been through enough already,”

“As we all have, Jesse,” Angela spoke softly, meeting the cowboy’s worried gaze with genuine concern, “you did the right thing,” she was toying with her fingers, the file now resting on her lap.

A quick glance, followed by an awkward silence,

“Mind if I ask you,” she finally said, “where did you get this file?”

“Someone gave it to me,” Jesse replied, faster than usual.

The entire room went quiet as a hollow, black end circled around them, exposing each saint and each sinner in their glorified shapes.

“An informant?” she asked again, softly, yet irreversibly worried.

“That’s as good a name as any,” the cowboy said as he shrugged his shoulders and looked down.

They knew him. They knew him too well to pretend they didn’t know his methods.

“You know, Jesse, I wasn’t born yesterday,” Morrison intervened, standing up again and joining McCree, “this is not the regular tip you get from your trustworthy, regular informant, this is the holy bible, son.” He signaled the doctor to hand him the file and the woman obliged, knowing in her heart that the former Strike-Commander was determined not to stop until he got his answer.

“Jack,” she tried to persuade him, but she too knew that man like the back of her own hand. Sadly. Holding the file in front of the cowboy’s seemingly unperturbed face, the group leader was relentless:

“Who gave you this report, Jesse?” he insisted.

“That’s not relevant, not now,” a futile diversion, “plus you know we’re not supposed to disclose our informants’ identities,”

He could recite the entire ABC on how to run an Overwatch operation – he knew it by heart: Reyes had made sure his lessons were promptly learned by his disciples. He could have fooled anyone but still, he could have never fooled Jack Morrison.

“Jesse, I know he taught you well, he was a great mentor,” a punch below the size, where it always hurt the most, “but this report… this is the real thing, you didn’t just get this information from someone on the inside, that goes without saying,“ how he knew his rhetoric, his speeches, his contrived sense of leadership, “only a high-ranked member of Talon could have given you this file, Jesse, because only a high-ranked agent would have access to this sort of files in the first place,”

The cowboy hesitated: Morrison was gravitating too close to the truth yet he was done pretending. He was done running from the man that he was.

“Angela, can you give us a moment, please?” Morrison asked and the woman nodded her head in silence and understood that she had to leave. She didn’t want to – but she had to. The cowboy was biting his lip when she left the room in silence as if anticipating the pain he was surely going to cause her.

“Look, Jesse, I’m not suggesting you’re a double agent,” Morrison began as he grabbed Jesse’s pack of smokes and took a cigar, “I don’t think you’re one of them – the fact that you are giving us this file proves it,”

“You need proof now, Jack?” Jesse asked sarcastically, leaning closer, offering his lighter for the former Strike-Commander to rekindle an old habit of his.

“No, Jesse, I don’t – that’s the point.” Morrison breathed out, sitting next to the open window, “I’ve known you since you were a child, I know who you are and even if we don’t always happen to see eye to eye, I know the kind of man that you are, I know what you’re made of, son.” He had never spoken to Jesse in such a way – that had always been Reyes’ job, “I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing, I need to know you’re not in way over your head,”

The flash of a smile was curling up Jesse’s lips: “You’re starting to sound an awful lot like him, Jack,”

“Maybe,” the soldier whispered and uneven columns of smoke began their journey as they abandoned his lips only to fly across the gardens of Shimada Castle, “but you know we’re not fond of surprises. I’m the best example of a rotten secret that backfires – Genji goes missing once a week, soon they’re gonna start asking questions like they always do,” it had been ages since he had had his last cigarette, Jesse sure was a bad influence, “and now you bring in this report… they will ask, Jesse, and what happens when they connect the dots? You and Genji were Blackwatch, you two were under _his_ command,”

When did his ghost become so big? When did he lose his name and became anonymous in his irrevocable identity?

“I know,” the cowboy looked down, “it’s not him, Jack – I’m not that stupid.”

When did his shadow begin to cover the light?

When did his heart go missing?

“No, Jesse, I think you’re even stupider than that – if that’s even possible,” Morrison yelled, and threw away the still half-alive cigar, “When you left here, why didn’t you go back to Gibraltar? You could have gone someplace else, Jesse, you could have gone anywhere – but you stayed here. And now you have this?”

Jesse sat down on Morrison’s bed, holding his head in his hands – he was about to become the kind of man _she_ hated, the kind of man _she_ would not want to protect.

“It’s Sombra,” he finally confessed, hating himself, cursing himself, waving goodbye to every single thing that could have been, “the hacker… we met on Christmas night, a couple years ago, now we meet from time to time,”

“How can you trust her, Jesse, you know what she does,”

“We don’t talk about work, ever,” the cowboy yelled, interrupting the soldier, “she doesn’t tell me about Talon, and I don’t tell her about Overwatch,”

He still was a frightened, confused child thriving for a semblance of love. Just crumbs of the emotion were enough for his heart to keep on beating – perhaps that’s all he was ever going to be: a frightened, confused child, thriving for a familiar sentiment. The older man sat back down on his bed, and let the file rest between his legs and Jesse’s,

“Why would she give this to you?” his voice was significantly softer now.

“My best guess?” the cowboy said as he looked away, “I think she was tryin’ to scare me off, she’s always sayin’ that when he comes, I should just run my ass off – I guess she thought if I read this, I would feel terrified of Amelie, so I wouldn’t come back here,” his smile was torn in two, just like his entire world.

“So that you would stay with her instead?”

“Could be,” Jesse guessed, “Nah, that’s not really our thing,” he shook his head, “we’re no horny teens, boss, we know I’m not Romeo, and she’s definitely not Juliet,”

He should have screamed – should have grabbed him by his ridiculous jacket and shake. But he didn’t.

“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” Morrison said softly, patting the cowboy’s shoulder, “even if I do believe you’re in way over your head,” both men stood up and walked towards the door then: Morrison still had the file in his possession, and a long night was surely coming his way.

“What about Angie?” the older man said all of a sudden, one of his hands resting on the door.

The cowboy met his gaze and shrugged his shoulders: he had just betrayed Sombra, he could not afford to think about the unpredictable future.

“What about her?”

.

.

.

**IV - Brother**

The first step was short and shy, as if asking for permission.

Then a long pause had kept his older brother waiting, with his arms crossed over his chest and that petulant smirk of his already plastered on his face. The second step was languid and dispossessed of all sense of determination.

“Baka…”

The Sparrow removed his helmet and threw it wildly in Hanzo’s direction: he might have been covered in metal, but he still was intrinsically human in essence – temperamental, and reactionary.

“I haven’t heard you speak Japanese in a very long time, brother,” the third step had been fueled by Hanzo’s twisted sense of humor, “Amelie must have hit you quite hard in the head then,” the Sparrow said as he finally approached Hanzo’s bed – his parents’ bed – trying his best not to pay attention to every single detail trying to remind him of the ones they were no more.

“Here, let me fix that pillow for you,” the younger brother said after a while, leaning over, trying to escape the endless scrutiny of Hanzo’s incredulous stare, “come on, Hanzo, move a little, let me rearrange these pillows,” he was struggling, but his brother did not seem to care.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to,” Hanzo said after a while – the truth was, he thought his brother was stronger than that.

“But how can you be comfortable in here? Look around you and…” Genji protested, “Is the bed broken?” taking a step back to admire the view, the Sparrow’s wide-eyed gaze traveled from the bed to his brother:

“You two broke down this bed?” his smile gave him away, and Hanzo grinned, timidly, as if afraid of reciprocating the gesture, “well done, brother,”

Sitting on his brother’s bed, the Sparrow took a moment to observe each and every single scar illustrating Hanzo’s body – the marks her love had tattooed on his skin, the marks his older brother would never forget.

“So, how are you?”

“Angela says I need to rest, but I feel fine,” Hanzo began, “My throat hurts, my crotch hurts, even my hair hurts and my head’s been spinning ever since I got in this bed,” he signaled Genji to move closer and the Sparrow obliged, timidly, “Did you talk to Angela about Amelie? I tried talking to her myself, but she only said that Amelie is sleeping – sedatives, she said.”

“And those sedatives are not working on you, right brother?” Genji retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “She didn’t tell me anything,” the Sparrow reassured him, “I know as much as you do,”

He could only see his eyes, and a handful of scars illustrating his cheeks and his nose – still, he could recognize the brother he had loved so dearly, several lifetimes ago.

The mere sight of him was enough to make him tremble.

“Genji,” he reached out, and cupped cold metal with warm skin, “do you think our fight could have caused her to…”

“I thought about that too,” the Sparrow interrupted his older brother, voice weak and softened by the burden that was remorse, “and even when I think we were not the reason why she attacked you, I can’t stop feeling guilty about it,”

Silence knew who they were – where they lived, and who they really loved.

“I feel the same way,”

Silence knew all of their scars, silence knew who they really were.

“So, you like her, then,” Genji said, careful enough not to mention the actual feeling, “you care about her – you care so much about her that you chose not to hurt her,”

“Genji if this is about what happened between you and me,” the memory, more painful than ever before, set in his eyes and called out his name, undressing the man he thought he was, “I don’t think I have the energy to withstand another fight,”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” Genji raised his hands in a defensive stance, avoiding the conflict, seeking peace for the very first time, “she’s a great shot, Hanzo, but when it comes to close quarters combat, she has no chance going against you. You’re stronger, faster...” he went on, trying to find a logical explanation why his brother had chosen not to retaliate when he had clearly had the chance to do so, “Why didn’t you defend yourself?”

A brief smile, ghostly, almost imperceptible.

“I did,” Hanzo whispered, “I just tried my best not to hurt her in the process. That was the only thing that was clear to me back then – no matter what happened to me, I was not going to hurt her; I was not going to cause her any more pain,”

Several years ago, when his brother attacked him, Genji had decided not to hurt him – not to cause him any more pain.

“I understand the feeling, Hanzo,” the Sparrow said as he looked down, voice laced with melancholy, “I honestly do,”

He took his older brother’s hand in his, and looked into those big, dark eyes of his, the safe harbor of his childhood, the beasts dictating the infuriating events of his teenage years, “Do you feel safe, brother?” he dared to ask, “When you are with her, knowing what she’s done to her husband – do you feel safe?”

Hanzo cupped Genji’s fingers with his free hand,

“Do you feel safe when I’m around?” he asked, then he looked down, and contemplated the communion of skin and metal resting between them, “It’s complicated, isn’t it? It’s all been reduced to a simple matter of trust.” He said, “Is that why you don’t like her for me? I mean… ever since Amelie and I got together you’ve been acting strange, brother,”

Genji shook his head,

“Maybe,”

“A part of me thought you didn’t like her because you didn’t want me to be happy,” yet another confession, another step towards that place they were both dying to reach.

“That’s all I ever wanted, Hanzo,” he had learned to speak with those incomparable eyes of his, “for you to be happy, really happy. And even if I know she’s trying her best, even if I see her struggle each day I can’t help but fear that one of these days you’re going to lay down beside her but when the morning comes, you’re not going to wake up,” he snatched his hand away from Hanzo, and looked deeply into his eyes, “and I’m still pretty sure that even if I have forgiven you, you still feel like you need to face some sort of extraordinary atonement -” the tone of his voice was darker now, even reproachful, “I need you to know that you don’t have to give up your life in order to earn a forgiveness you have already earned,” he said, heartfelt words softening his mouth again, trespassing the inevitable artificially of his vocal chords, “but if you feel safe around her, brother, if you feel she’s worth the fight, I’ll be there for you – always.”

He could have stared at his brother’s hands indefinitely – until the end of time, probably. He could have asked himself whether it was a metaphor he hadn’t been able to understand in the past: his insufferable grasp relentlessly trying to hold on to someone who just wanted to be free.

“Thank you, Genji,”

Freedom had been elusive back then, for the both of them, even the illusion of it had turned out to be nothing but yet another dungeon.

“So how about you, brother?” Hanzo asked after a while, “Are you happy with the cowboy and Dr. Ziegler?”

Genuine interest, at last.

“I guess some things are about to change on that front,” the ninja began, “rather sooner than later,”

“Because the cowboy left?”

“Among other things,” Genji said, “I can’t blame you for thinking the way you do – it is true that Jesse takes me back to another time of my life, a darker time, and it’s also true that I will be forever grateful of Angela, for everything she’s done for me over the years,” his eyes sparkled with a love that had endured, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t love them, brother - I do, I love them both, deeply.”

Silence stretched between them once again, but for the first time in ages, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“But these times are complicated, brother,” Genji reflected, “and I can’t help but feel I’ve let them down. All this constant fighting between us… I was so frustrated, Hanzo, I can’t blame them if they feel they had enough,”

Hanzo could relate. He understood – probably like no-one else could.

“Genji, there’s something I need to ask,” the older dragon said, mustering all his courage, “where do you go every Sunday night?”

Genji stared intently at him, unable to provide his brother with an answer.

“Some people think it’s… suspicious.”

“Who? Morrison?” The ninja inquired, smiling sarcastically under the lower half of his mask, “Hanzo, that man sees shadows crawling in everywhere, I know we can’t blame him for acting the way he does but he really needs to understand that you just can’t live life expecting to uncover an enemy in everyone around you,” he paused, “It’s not Talon.” He felt the need to clarify, “I can’t tell you where I go every Sunday night, it’s my secret – and I’d like to keep it for myself for a while longer, brother, I hope you understand,” Hanzo nodded in silence, “but it’s not Talon, Hanzo, I give you my word,”

He stood up and paced nervously around the room as Hanzo watched him in silence,

“How could I?” The ninja finally asked, “Talon already killed me once, brother – they won’t do it again,”

“Talon didn’t kill you, Genji,” Hanzo mused, toying with the very notion that had ruined their lives, “I did.”

Hands at the sides of his waist, Genji leaned his back against the wall and shook his head pensively,

“A lot of people killed me, Hanzo,” he grieved, “you were their weapon of choice,”

He had never seen himself a weapon, even when the clan had successfully turned him into one. Perhaps his younger brother had sensed their macabre intentions – maybe, back then, he did not rebel against their ancestors’ heritage, maybe he was simply trying to make sure they could never change the one that he was. But now his hands had the potential to tear and slice: Overwatch had turned him into a weapon – the clan had murdered the child, his own brother had clipped the Sparrow’s wings and Overwatch, that distant silver lining that had miraculously appeared at the end of the road, had exposed his broken soul to the most horrendous irony: in order to save his life, they had turned him into the one thing he didn’t want to become.

“I’ll tell you, one day… I’ll tell you where I go every Sunday night, you can rest assure,” Genji whispered, “but not until you learn that not everything is black and white in this life, brother; not until you understand you’re not the only one to blame for everything that happened between us,”

He knew the clan had done its part. Knew the elders were to blame. Knew his father should have been that – a father. Still, he could see his younger brother’s blood like endless rivers of furious crimson, wrapped around his fingers.

“Hey, I didn’t know you had a copy of this picture of us,” the Sparrow said, forcing the heir out of his trance. The younger dragon walked around Hanzo’s nightstand and picked up the framed photograph resting right next to the small lamp.

“Neither did I,” Hanzo alleged, craning his neck to catch a glimpse. He still remembered that day, he still remembered those smiles.

“I recognize the frame, this is the picture of us I had in my room, back in Nepal,” Genji exclaimed as he held the picture in his hands.

“Your omnic friend must have put it in there while I was asleep,” Hanzo assumed in a rather nonchalant fashion as he crossed his arms over his chest, “this was our last picture, I remember,”

Of course he did. They both remembered.

“You weren’t too fond of photographs back then, I guess you only agreed to take this picture because my hair was green,” the smile in Genji’s voice was evident, “we look so young,” he moved closer to his brother, “look at you, all mighty and important, and with significantly less gray around the temples… guess that’s why you got that undercut, right?”

Hanzo looked at his brother, then smiled tenderly at him.

“You looked like a character from one of your anime shows,” he finally said, tracing Genji’s green locks with the tip of his index finger, “I’ve been watching a show lately, a brand new version of a vintage anime show you used to watch, I believe, _Violet Evergarden_ , it’s quite good, actually,”

“Hanzo, that show is for girls,” Genji agonized as he snatched the picture away from his older brother’s grasp and put it back in its rightful place.

“I figured,” the heir shrugged his shoulders despondently, “but the girl in the show doesn’t understand what love is, she doesn’t know what _“I love you”_ means; and I can relate,”

Genji sat down on the bed again,

“Hanzo, if you didn’t know what love was, you would have never left the clan,” he said, patting his brother’s nearest shoulder, “and Amelie would have died tonight… but I guess I have missed that, you know?”

“What?”

“You, giving me reasons to be ashamed of my older brother,” that sassy remark, that gratuitous and snarky comment: the Genji he had known, the Genji he remembered from his childhood was alive inside that body. The ninja removed his hand, and took the solitary book that was resting underneath the pillows, “what do we have here?”

He hadn’t seen that book in ages. He could still remember every excuse he had come up with when his father gave it to him, on his twentieth birthday: too old-fashioned, slow-paced, boring… He scanned through the pages with hungry eyes until he stopped before one of the many markers Hanzo had left among the yellowish pages, and began reading out loud:

_“But no, no, I am not to blame, Nastenka; I feel that, I know that, because my heart tells me I am right, for I cannot hurt you in any way, I cannot wound you! I was your friend, but I am still your friend, I have betrayed no trust. Here my tears are falling, Nastenka. Let them flow, let them flow — they don’t hurt anybody. They will dry, Nastenka.”_

He closed the book, and let it rest on his lap.

“I guess it doesn’t seem so boring anymore,” Genji admitted – mostly to himself.

“Why don’t you take it?” The older dragon encouraged him, “Read it, it was her favorite book after all,”

Maybe that’s what had stopped him before. Perhaps he was too young. Perhaps she had already begun to disappear from his memories.

“I don’t remember her,” he confessed, brokenhearted, “I try, but I can’t, Hanzo. She’s gone.”

“You said she would have liked Amelie,”

“I said what you needed to hear,” Genji lamented, “but I can’t remember her – I can’t look at her pictures, I feel like I’m cheating, you know?” He was crying – Hanzo couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his brother cry, “I’m her son – I’m supposed to remember her,”

“Then you should read her favorite book, see if it can help you,” Hanzo said, cupping Genji’s hands with his own, “there’s a lot of her in those pages, Genji,” he reached out and held his brother in his arms – the feeling was alien, yet he couldn’t deny the increasing familiarity of the gesture.

“Tell me about her,” Genji said, leaning against his brother for support and Hanzo smiled, weakly, tenderly.

“She would always read to us, and play with us,” he remembered, “she would create entire universes for us – and in every one of them, we were never criminals. We were astronauts, and chefs and actors… and she would always sit by the pond, always,” the anguish carried by Genji’s tears silenced his voice, and the heir listened closely as the Sparrow cried for their mother, for their family, for the ones the clan had murdered.

“Genji, you were so young when she died…” he remembered, “Take the book, keep it.”

“I couldn’t,” the ninja said, wiping his tears with clumsy fingers, “it’s yours,”

Hanzo shook his head, recognizing the stubborn nature of the fragile creature in his arms,

“Father gave it to you, Genji, I just took good care of it for some time because, like mother used to say, every book deserves an owner,”

“You keep it,” Genji negotiated, “I promise I’ll read it, then I’ll give it back to you – I know how much you miss her, Hanzo, I know how much she means to you,” the one he had loved the most, the one he still missed, “besides, I can download entire libraries with my visor,”

“Really?”

“No, Hanzo,” he finally laughed, the clouds before his eyes were no longer blinding his vision, “I’m more human than you think, brother, and just to clear things up once and for all, my dick is intact.”

The bratty Sparrow was back. And Hanzo was grateful.

“I told her!” the heir exclaimed, finally able to play along, “I was trying to murder you, I had no reason to chop off your penis!” he laughed, but Genji turned around, and met his gaze with renewed concern.

“What if I read the book but I still can’t remember her?” the ninja asked.

“Then at least you can say that you had Father,” Hanzo said as he let his hands land on Genji’s shoulders, “I had her, and you had him,”

“Father loved you, Hanzo,” Genji retorted. “he had a funny way of showing it, but he loved you, brother.”

“I’m not sure he did,” Hanzo said, shaking his head, “I think he only saw me as a tool,”

“He loved you,” Genji whispered, “what he didn’t love, I believe, was the idea of Hanzo, the successor. Hanzo, the heir meant that he was going to die, brother; the fact that the elders were training you to replace him must have been incredibly hard to accept,” he offered, “by accepting you, he was also accepting his own end – as a concept, it was just too difficult to assimilate. One more year for you was one less year for him.” His hands held on tight to the book still resting on his lap, “Hanzo, the heir, also meant that he wasn’t absolutely necessary for the clan to survive: he was replaceable, he wasn’t almighty,”

He turned around, and looked into his brother’s eyes:

“But yes, I guess it’s safe to say that I had him and that you had her,” he admitted, “and now we only have each other, and the ones we love - it should be more than enough, Hanzo.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baka: fool
> 
> The fragment of the book read by Genji is a quote from White Nights, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky


	13. Phantom Pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If it's not real, then why does it hurt so much?

Variations on a Theme

Act XIII

**Phantom Pains**

* * *

_“You have been the last dream of my soul.”_

Charles Dickens ― A Tale of Two Cities

* * *

 

**I – On holistic constructs, and the illusions of a feeling we once held so dear.**

When morning came, and the agents resumed their routine, one by one they all realized that the woman had left Shimada Castle in the middle of the night. But Satya’s sudden departure hadn’t exactly surprised anyone – the entire team had been falling apart right from the start and even Jesse had left. It was expected, however, for everyone to sit tight, stay quiet, and endure – yet they all knew the architect had never been able to find her place among them and, perhaps, it was better this way.

Morrison and Ziegler were the first ones to notice her absence, but they lacked the energy to go after her. If anything, and especially after reading Dr. Beuhs’ report on how he had created the Widowmaker all those years ago, they were glad Satya had chosen to leave right before hell itself could find a way inside Hanamura. At least, they thought, she would be safe.

The angel and the soldier had stayed up all night reading through the pages and trying to find connections between Beuhs’ inhumane experiment and the poor woman isolated from the world, tied up to a strange bed, and waiting for an answer. They woke up the remaining members of the team and informed them all that a meeting was to be held immediately – now that the doctor had Amelie’s old brain scans in her possession, every single agent needed to know the truth.

Hanzo remained in his room a while longer, while Morrison, Ziegler, and Genji debated whether the archer was ready to hear what they had to say or not – ultimately, they decided that, ready or not, Hanzo needed to know exactly what had happened that night, what had caused Amelie to attack him. So the former Scion abandoned his bed begrudgingly, torn between his own incomprehensible reality and the fact that their concern, albeit genuine, was about to turn Amelie into a test subject once again.

The brothers joined the monk, the cowboy, the soldier and the angel – Sojiro’s old office was now the temple of science, or so it seemed. The doctor gave each member a copy of Beuhs’ report, and immediately took the lead, explaining why it was crucial for the entirety of the team to collaborate.

Jack and Angela wanted to know if, by reading Beuhs’ report, the members of the team could be able to find any similarities between the Amelie they had helped reform and the Widowmaker they still remembered. But reading through those pages felt like dissecting that woman, so the archer closed his eyes, pushing the papers away from him.

None of them had the heart to ask him to keep reading. They all could see the pain in his eyes.

“What if this is fake?” Jesse asked, “what if this is just another one of their mind games?”

“I don’t think this report is fake, Jesse,” Angela said, “although I do believe Dr. Beuhs did not register the entire process, I believe he left some things unsaid.”

“Why?” The cowboy retorted, “Why would somebody even write a report like this in the first place? What’s the point?”

The doctor sighed,

“This was his professional legacy,” she said, recognizing a professional thirst that was too familiar to be ignored, “but I think his own compromised morality stopped him right before he was able to provide Talon with the complete recipe,” she folded her arms over her chest and looked down, “no matter how fascinated you are with your own work, when you’re creating such an abomination… it cannot be overlooked. So perhaps his ego forced him to write this document – to make sure they knew that it was possible to complete the process, to make sure they knew he had been the one completing it. But then he chose to spare a few very important details, so they could never replicate his work. Some might call it ego, I choose to believe it was his conscience trying to find some rest.” She stood up, hands on the table, “I choose to believe this man knew that he was ruining her life, I need to believe he was fully aware of the fact that he was creating a monster – he wanted to _exceed his own art_ , maybe… but perhaps he did not want others to experience what Amelie had experienced because of him,”

“How do you know he left some things out?” the former Scion asked.

“Her brain scans tell no lies, Hanzo,” the doctor said, as she sat down again, “Ana has made some major discoveries that I’ll explain to all of you in a minute,”

“They know?” Jesse interrupted her, “back in Gibraltar, they know what’s going on?”

Morrison and Ziegler nodded their heads in silence,

“I told Ana, I had to,” the doctor explained, “I don’t know if she shared the news with the rest of the agents yet, but she believes Amelie should go back to Gibraltar, even if we don’t share the same opinion,”

“Why not?” Genji asked, “Gibraltar has the equipment, you could help her there,” his voice trailed off as the doctor stared at him,

“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do to help her, Genji,” she confessed, “the damage is done, and it’s irreversible. Still, I don’t think we should put her back in a cage – she’s our friend, she’s one of us,”

“You want to use her as bait,” Hanzo offered, “so you are willing to turn her into an excuse for you to fight Talon once again,”

“No, Hanzo,” Morrison helped the heir, patting his shoulder with paternal understanding, “we believe she must stay here with us for us to understand what happened, for us to decide together, as a team, what to do next,” he took a seat right next to Hanzo, his eyes never leaving the archer’s, “even if she can’t be saved, even if she’s already gone – she’s not disposable,” he shifted in his chair, ready to assume leadership, “we need to know what triggered her – so please read the file carefully, and let us know if you find anything suspicious,”

“Anything you can remember, anything you think sounds familiar,” Mercy implored, “so why don’t we start at the beginning, Hanzo? Why don’t you tell us what happened that night?”

_“How do Japanese people say I love you?”_

_“We don’t.”_

The memories of that night flashed before his eyes with renewed tenacity. Perhaps his inability to reciprocate her love – at least, with the words she was longing to hear from him – had been enough to trigger the monster in her. But still, the man struggled in his silence, trying to find the reasons why she was now slipping through his fingers.

_“Do you still want to be an Overwatch agent? First the clan, now Overwatch – even Talon tried to lure you in… I can understand this thirst for freedom, Hanzo, even if it means I’ll have to let you go.”_

He searched within himself, but all courage and strength seemed to have forsaken his bones. He could see it in the doctor’s eyes, the need for answers he could not provide without undressing the bond uniting him with Amelie. It was already hard to admit that he was losing whatever it was that had brought them together in the first place – but it was even harder to admit there was a chance that, perhaps, the feeling had never even existed.

“She once told us that Widowmaker never had sex,” Angela tried to help him, “now we know you two were intimate but were you having sex when she attacked you?”

The heir opened his mouth, yet no words escaped his lips. This was supposed to be his own personal, intimate wound – but now it seemed everyone was trying their best to tear open the bandages and take a good look.

“Here it says that she dislikes Widowmaker,” Angela went on, cautiously, “so she chose to never have sex as a sort of punishment. Dr. Beuhs refers to it as a system of rewards and penalties – her own system, but if, at some point of your relationship with her she was able to override that system by having sex with you, that means she became able to differentiate herself from the original Widowmaker they created,” the archer nodded, still no words escaped his mouth, “maybe, during the time she spent with us, she was able to create a new system of penalty and reward – I think you were that reward, Hanzo,”

“I saw her dancing, more than once,” the archer finally spoke, “the first time I saw her, we were in Gibraltar, I got angry at her, I thought she was acting strange,” he remembered, “then she danced for me again when we were here. I was playing the piano for her, and she was dancing to the music – if anything, I thought it would make her feel better,”

“She stayed with the doctor while she was still with Talon,” Jack said, “just like she chose to stay with you, ever since we captured her in France,” he was careful not to hurt his friend, yet the implications in his words were simply too hard to ignore: perhaps she had never truly felt anything for the archer, perhaps the lock in her mind and the command that the doctor had placed inside her system had created a new target for the Widowmaker to come to life once again.

“She didn’t want to be alone,” Mercy added, “that’s why she found an anchor in Dr. Beuhs. I have reason to believe she was trying to do the same thing with you, Hanzo – I remember, when Amelie and I were still in Gibraltar, she feared you were not going to return. At first, I thought it was separation anxiety, but perhaps she thought you were abandoning her, maybe she thought you did not want to be with her – you had already become her reference, even Dr. Beuhs tried to get away from her when he first noticed what she was trying to do,”

“I hate to be the one saying it out loud,” Jesse began, “but it’s not real, Hanzo – whatever she thought she felt for you, it was all in her mind,”

Genji stood up – a part of him fighting the urgent need to slap the cowboy hard across the face – “I thanked her,” he whispered, brokenhearted, “I thanked her because she was taking the time to sentimentally educate my brother,” Hanzo stood up as well, and embraced his brother,

“It’s not your fault,” the archer said, “I should have noticed,”

“But she’s here because of me,” Genji yelled, unable to contain the fury dwelling in his gut, “I insisted, brother. I pushed, and pushed, and pushed until you agreed you’d help me capture the Widowmaker, and then I fomented the bond between the two of you, even when you were clearly rejecting her,” he paused, and let go of his brother, “back then I thought you were too scared to admit you had feelings for her,”

“I was,” the heir whispered, sitting down again, enveloping the whole group in a new kind of silence.

“Capturing Widowmaker was my idea, Genji,” Morrison said, “when Jesse told me he had seen something good inside that woman, I felt the need to at least try to get her back – for Gerard, for Ana, and above all things, for Amelie herself.” He looked at Hanzo, eyes filled with an honesty he had seldom revealed in the past, “That’s why I was the one with her during her first mission as an Overwatch agent and not you, Hanzo – I needed to see if the Widowmaker was truly gone. She fooled me, and I’m not proud of myself. I did horrible things that day, I said things that I regret – but everything she felt that day, during our mission… they were just memories of feelings, Hanzo, the doctor explains it better: he created _the illusion of love_ , the illusion of a certain feeling… and I just bought it.”

He stopped and held his head between his hands for a while, then he looked at Angela, undressing a sensitivity he didn’t know he still had in him, “Everything I did that day, everything I said to her… I just wanted her to run away from all this. I wanted her to be able to move on with her life, to find someone, to dance again, to have a normal life – and I still think she deserves to live a normal life, I don’t accept that her only fate is to spend the rest of her days in a cage, isolated from the rest of the world – she’s not an animal,”

For the first time, in what felt like several lifetimes, the doctor was finally able to find traces of the man she had loved so dearly during her youth – broken and asphyxiated by guilt and remorse and, once again, on the verge of defeat.

“I guess I never thought she would develop feelings for Hanzo, even if that’s not the right word anymore, but the point is that Hanzo also deserves a normal life,” Jack concluded, “what are we going to do now? What are we supposed to do? Extricate her from his life? Lock her up in a facility where she can’t hurt anyone? End her?”

They couldn’t afford to face that possibility.

“I know you said we should all decide what to do with her together, as a team,” Jesse offered, “but I think Hanzo should be the only one making that decision,” he grabbed a copy of Dr. Beuhs’ report, his fingers traveling through the pages, “according to this, she does not feel real loyalty towards Overwatch, we’re just company – we’re the ones keeping the monster at bay; that’s the only reason why she chose to stay with us,” he took a deep breath, “but while we are just a leash for her, Hanzo is the one she cannot live without,”

“Until she kills him,” Mercy added, “then the cycle will begin again. We befriended her, that means all of us are in danger when she’s around but Hanzo has a death sentence on his back,”

“That’s nothing new,” the archer whispered, “still, I should have listened to my brother when he said a woman like that could never fall for someone like me, it had all the hallmarks of a beautiful forgery.”

“What type of marks, Hanzo?” Angela insisted, “please let me know,”

The archer took a good look around at all those faces still waiting for an answer. Perhaps it was time to let them in.

“When we were still in Gibraltar, she hurt me while I was sleeping,” he remembered, “she got inside my room, joined me on the bed and scratched my skin until I bled. I didn’t think much of it back then, but then she said that sometimes, she felt like hurting people for no reason – she was worried,” he stopped, the lump in his throat was making it hard for the former Scion to go on, “but I dismissed her concern – I said it was _human nature_ ,” he smiled bitterly,  “but according to this file, her love is a holistic construct,”

“Whatever the hell that means…” McCree added, and the archer looked his way, visibly broken.

“Holistic means that the parts of a given something are interconnected and that they’re only explicable by reference to the whole,” Jack explained, “although it also means that in cases like Amelie’s, in order to treat these patients, you’re supposed to take into account both mental _and_ social factors, rather than just the symptoms,”

Angela nodded her head in silence, but the heir seemed lost between the definitions Morrison had just provided.

“It means I should be happy to know that she loves me,” Hanzo said, “but at the same time, it kills me to realize her love is not real – it’s a construct, Jesse.”

“Love is always a construct,” the cowboy retorted, “it’s not just an entity, floating around people. You build it, together. It’s made of bits and pieces, memories and things you share – it’s an abstraction that contains everything that’s keeping you together, it’s what helps you remember why you chose to be with each other in the first place,” it seemed too simple – to talk about the feeling as if they still had it in their possession, yet the cowboy knew that the abstraction he shared with both the ninja and the doctor had disappeared a long time ago. All that was left of it now was the evocation of a feeling they had once shared – the illusion of a feeling.

“I wouldn’t go as far as to say that what she feels for you is not real,” Mercy cupped the archer’s hand with her own, “she asked me once, while we were in Gibraltar, in case something happened to you, if I would be willing to help you – perhaps she could sense something was wrong, Hanzo, perhaps she knew something like this could happen and was only trying to make sure you’d be alright,”

The doctor had kept her promise – she had helped him. But he was not alright.

“She was the one that talked me into deploying Angela,” Jack spoke softly, “I guess she could not stay away from you but, at the same time, she needed to know you’d be safe from harm,”

The archer stood up and walked around his late father’s office, but Jesse’s voice brought him back to reality,

“If it’s not real,” the cowboy whispered, caressing his prosthetic arm with his one good hand, “then why does it hurt so much?”

As he stood in front of the window, the heir curled his hands into furious fists. They had trained him – emotions could be perceived as weaknesses, after all.

“What exactly did you do to her?” Hanzo asked, turning around to face Doctor Ziegler, “When my brother and I brought her in – how did you manage to break the conditioning back then?”

The woman was biting her lower lip, unable to hide the cold facts any longer. She reached inside her binder and showed the team the scans that Ana had sent her the previous night – it was easy to notice that, at a first glance, none of them could really understand the very landscape they were looking at.

“When I read Dr. Beuhs’ report on how he had conditioned Amelie in order to create Widowmaker, one thing seemed extremely suspicious,” Angela began, “the frontal lobe does not control our emotions – the amygdala does. And the amygdala is not located in the frontal lobe, you can find them here,” she pointed at the right location in the brain scans, “in the temporal lobe.”

Every agent, except for the imperturbable monk, had their elbows on the table, struggling to catch a glimpse of all those things they didn’t know of, but were eager to learn.

“As you can see in these early scans, here’s the lock that Dr. Beuhs implanted on Amelie’s frontal lobe, in order to create Widowmaker. Now here’s the tricky part, gentlemen, so try to keep up,” the good doctor advised, before continuing, “According to Dr. Beuhs, he implanted this lock because he was trying to make her unable to feel – the lock I found was a small metallic device, with a faint pulse, whose purpose was to override certain activities in Amelie’s frontal lobe – but the frontal lobe does not control how we administer our feelings and emotions.” Angela paused, and stared at Jack, “the frontal lobe does, however, administer our conception of how others perceive us – what’s socially accepted, and what’s not: Widowmaker was able to kill without remorse, but not because she was unable to feel,”

The soldier scratched the back of his head, “Angela, keep it simple,”

“Talon’s Widowmaker was able to kill without remorse because she wasn’t able to interpret that killing is wrong,” Angela concluded, “in other words, she could not see the simple fact that murdering someone is wrong – she could not see it was, and always has been, a social convention,”

She sat down again, as the eyes surrounding her began to express utter surprise.

“When I found this lock, I removed it,” she clarified, “now she can see the difference between good and bad – this is huge, this is what differentiates our Amelie from their Widowmaker: our Amelie knows what’s right and what’s wrong, even if a part of her brain is sometimes unable to stop her; and even if she’s incapable of emotions, the fact that she tries to fit in by doing what’s socially (morally) accepted, is a very interesting approximation to actual remorse – it’s her own, revisited system of penalty and reward: if she does the right thing, she gets to be with Hanzo – if she screws, she ends up all alone,”

“But she can’t feel?” Jesse questioned, confused, “even after removing this lock?”

“The lock has never had anything to do with her feelings, Jesse,” Angela clarified, “the lock was only altering the functions of her frontal lobe, such as emotional expression and sexual behavior – two things Widowmaker had completely repressed, but everything concerning emotional responses is controlled by the amygdala, and research indicates that, during fear conditioning, sensory stimuli reach the basolateral complexes of the amygdala, particularly the lateral nuclei, where they form associations with memories of the stimuli. The association between stimuli and the aversive events they predict may be mediated by long-term potentiation, a sustained enhancement of signaling between affected neurons,”

A diversity of confused visages stopped her before the doctor had any chance to go on,

“Please,” Hanzo begged, “make it simple,” and the woman rolled her eyes, nearly exasperated.

“Okay,” she said, as she grabbed the scans, and used her pen to locate the area, “the amygdala is an almond-shaped section of nervous tissue located in the temporal lobe of the brain, is everybody still with me?”

The archer, the soldier, the ninja and the cowboy all nodded in silent agreement,

“The amygdalae are essential to your ability to feel certain emotions and to perceive them in other people, alright?” Another silent nod from the group, “The right and left portions of the amygdala both have independent memory systems but they work together to store, encode, and interpret emotion. The right hemisphere is associated with negative emotion, can you tell me what type of emotion is associated with the left hemisphere then?”

“Positive,” Jesse said, waiting in vain for the other males to join him,

“Precisely,” there was a long pause before the doctor went on, “I failed to see it then, and I think I only saw it now because I had Dr. Beuhs’ report with me – but Amelie’s left hemisphere has been damaged. The wound is nearly imperceptible, but I’m afraid the damage is irreversible. She can no longer process any positive emotions – she can only make emotional associations when they are intimately inculcated by fear or anxiety,”

“So she can’t feel anything good?” Jack murmured, with his fists still on the table, and the doctor nodded her head,

“Not unless it evocates some sort of distress,” she added, “she can’t feel love per se, all she can feel is the anxiety from knowing that love might end, at any given moment. She’s always waiting for the nightmare, she never gets to see the dream. Plus, the left amygdala plays a role in the brain's reward system, but since Amelie’s left amygdala does not work…”

“The environment ends up creating one for her,” the ninja concluded, surprising his brother with a clarity he had seldom shown in the past.

“I should have seen it,” Mercy lamented, “but the lock was there, and we had just so many things to care about: we had to increase her heart rate so her skin color would go back to normal; we had to keep her hydrated because there was literally no water left in her skin, her eyes had to be adjusted as well,” her voice trailed off, and Jesse cupped one of her hands with his, showing his support, expressing his gratitude for everything she had done for them.

“But the order,” she whispered, “the order _kill the one you love_ cannot be removed, it can’t be altered – it’s a vicious circle, it’s a contradiction: she has to kill the one she loves but since she’s been deprived of all positive emotions, she can’t love anyone but, at the same time, now that we have removed the lock and she’s finally able to interpret social conventions, she wants to fit in so she’s willing to do whatever it takes to belong. And when she finally does, when she belongs and she finds someone, instead of enjoying their company she can only think that the love she found is always about to leave her,” she stopped, and looked at the brokenhearted archer for a brief moment, then her eyes looked down, addressing his pain, “that’s why every time you think you’re safe, she always finds a way out: and she fights, and she leaves your room, Hanzo. That’s how she recreated the pause and the reset,”

“Why?” Hanzo asked, hurt and broken.

“Because I think she’s trying to protect you,” Angela confessed, “every time you fight, and she turns away from you, she’s trying to quiet the voices in her head telling her that she must kill you. Every time she fights those voices, the nightmare must lessen a bit,”

“And perhaps, every time she pauses your relationship she’s also ensuring herself that by not killing you, she’s also doing what’s socially acceptable,” Genji offered, unable to look at his brother in the eye.

Jack grabbed a copy of the report and read a fragment out loud, “ _She has become a description without a substance. She’s just a shape with no real content inside. We have made her hollow, we have completely emptied her – now she’s like a glass: I always drink from this glass, but I don’t always fill it up with the same beverage_.” Defeated, he tossed the papers aside, “The first thing she seeks is the contact with others – because others fill her up with content, and substance,” he said, “that’s why she befriended Angela, because she needed a mirror in another woman, a woman capable of experiencing emotions. That’s why she wanted my company, because I can take her back to a time when she was… different; that’s why she befriended Jesse – because she knows he was the first one to see something good in her, and she needs to hold on to the good in her she’s unable to see,” he remembered the kiss, he remembered her words in the night, “she bypasses faces, right? That’s what she does,”

“She found love in Hanzo,” Genji said, “Hanzo has now replaced the doctor, the doctor had replaced the husband, the husband had replaced the father,”

“And what about you?” Hanzo asked his brother, “what does she find in you, Genji? Which face are you supposed to replace?”

An awkward silence stretched between them, taking hold of every face surrounding that table – until the doctor mustered all her courage, and shattered it with unprecedented honesty,

“Herself,” she whispered, “she can’t figure him out because she can only see herself in him – she can’t fight him, because she can’t fight herself. That’s why she asks so many questions about him: because she thinks that if she gets those answers, if she can really get to know him, she’ll get to know herself – but the thought is frightening,” she paused, too afraid to look at the archer now, “in a way, we can say Genji is her only genuine bond. He’s the only one with a face that cannot be bypassed, he’s the only one she cannot touch – he represents herself, her current self.”

A small fragment of her silence, a tremor in her skin as the former Scion of the Shimada clan remembered the Frenchwoman’s eyes as she deconstructed the image of that poor woman dancing for her in that godforsaken nightclub – maybe pieces of her had corrupted the memory of the one she had been before, the one before the mind games, the one before Talon.

“A person who’s been modified because of the many mistakes made by other people, doomed to that altered existence thanks to the intervention of others in his life,” the doctor concluded, “Genji is – and will always be – the one she can’t afford to face,”

Genji was right, after all: Amelie and the Sparrow had more things in common. They were victims – and now the archer’s hands seemed to have been washed in a furious shade of red that would never leave his sight.

“I should go talk to her,” Jack sentenced, “I think it’s time she learned the truth about herself. But perhaps Jesse is right, perhaps Hanzo should be the one making the most important decision,”

What to do with a mind that is unable to feel, what to do with a soul that’s way beyond fixing, what to do with a body with the power to destroy the ones that care for her?  

Heads nodded, as hearts shattered a little bit more. Then all of them left the room in silence – except for the archer, who chose to stay in his father’s office, contemplating what to do with the remnants of a love that had never even existed.

It took him a couple of minutes to find the omnic monk, still floating silently in his place. Zenyatta hadn’t said anything, hadn’t even made a sound during the meeting.

A metallic hand landed on Hanzo’s shoulder,

“In the end, isn’t the illusion of love a type of love?” the monk asked, peacefully, and finally left the room.

.

.

.

**II – On the pain that we still feel when we remember the ones that are no more.**

The Amelie he still remembered from his youth was irretrievable. The one they had accepted as one of their own, was a lie. And the one locked up in a distant room, isolated from the rest of world, was the question mark at the end of the only riddle they could not solve. He tried his best to remember everything that the doctor had just told them, every little difference between what Dr. Beuhs had chosen to write in his report and what he had actually done to the Frenchwoman. Still, his steps were far too slow for the man to ever reach his destination – his muscles felt surprisingly cold and stiff as if his legs had been deprived of all grace.

When he finally stood before her door, Morrison lifted one of his hands, curling his fingers to create a tight fist, and there his hand lingered, immobile in the empty space separating his body from her door. It seemed as if his arm was unable to overcome the distance. It seemed as if his resolve had completely forsaken him.

_“Just for tonight, gentlemen, could you please leave aside the fact that you both are super soldiers?” Gerard joked, one of his hands landing on Morrison’s shoulder, the other, on Reyes’. It was typical of him to simply go with the flow, face the fact that his body had not been altered in order to become some sort of superman and still, manage to have a good time – but apparently, the man had other plans for the night._

_The three agents were standing outside a nightclub, in the cold Parisian night. Overwatch had just ruined a small Talon operation in Toulouse, and now that the paperwork was done and everyone over at Watchpoint: Paris had been thoroughly debriefed, there was nothing to do but enjoy the little spare time they had on their hands. Come morning, Gerard Lacroix was to resume his investigation in his native Paris, and both Morrison and Reyes were to be deployed back to Gibraltar._

_“We should just go back to the hotel, Morrison,” Reyes whispered, “we got a plane to catch in the morning,”_

_“Come on, Gabriel, don’t be such a wallflower!” the French agent let out softly, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “we worked hard, we deserve a couple of drinks,”_

_“I’m not worried about the drinks, Gerard,” Reyes fought back, “we can drink at the hotel, we don’t need to be spotted entering a nightclub,”_

_Their fame was fairly moderate: Reyes and Lacroix were still pretty much enjoying the benefits of anonymity, but Morrison and his perfectly handsome face was acquiring a certain notoriety all over the globe – “Join Overwatch today” was the slogan that the man would repeat in every single TV spot, and women would helplessly drool, dreaming of the Strike-Commander behind their husbands’ backs._

_“We’re not gonna tell your family, Reyes,” Morrison said as he punched his friend on the shoulder, his legs already motioning towards the door, “and no-one can force you to do anything if you don’t want to – just a couple drinks, we watch the ladies, and then we go back to the hotel,”_

_Gerard had already joined Morrison, but Gabriel tapped the Frenchman on the shoulder, forcing him to turn around and meet his worried gaze,_

_“Your wife just signed the divorce papers,” he began, “this is not the place where you should be, Gerard – especially if you’re trying to keep your child,”_

_Lacroix smiled, appreciating his friend’s concern – but then he turned around once more, waving his hands in the air as if dismissing Gabriel’s opinion. Reyes shrugged his shoulders, nearly defeated._

_“Not my problem,” he whispered, as he finally joined the others._

_The distinctive smell of liquor and smoke welcomed the three men as soon as they stepped into the small nightclub. If they had to be honest, the place was pretty much crowded for a Tuesday, even if most of the patrons were nearly asleep, with their glasses in their hands and their mouths wide open. The three Overwatch agents, albeit a bit disheartened by the sight, approached the bar and ordered the required celebratory drinks they were looking for, as a variety of rather skinny girls appeared out of thin air, just to greet the newcomers with their flashy smiles._

_Everything was going smoothly - it was hard not to agree with Morrison on the fact that they were, indeed, having a good time. The Strike-Commander even dared to buy Lacroix a lap dance, indicating that he had earned it: not only he had just broken free from the chains of a doomed marriage, but he had also been the star during their last mission. Everything was going smoothly – except for the scene taking place several tables at their right._

_One of the girls was giving a gentleman a lap dance, nothing out of the ordinary, especially considering the kind of place they were in.  But when the bastard’s hand connected with the woman’s butt, the atmosphere changed in a rather drastic fashion. She stopped dancing, turned around and slapped the man hard across the face – then her expression changed, and the woman inexplicably threw up all over the man as if she just could not stomach the mere sight of him._

_The man got to his feet, visibly upset, and inched closer to the dancer. He grabbed her firmly by the forearm, shaking her entire form like a leaf rocked by the furious winds of winter._

_Agent Lacroix stood up, but before he could even manage to move, Gabriel grabbed him by the shoulder,_

_“We’re not cops,” he said, “to serve and to protect… that’s not what we do,”_

_“Really?” Jack intervened, “Agree to disagree, then,”_

_The blond super soldier stood up and marched towards the scene but Gerard, relentless, joined him before he was able to make a move on his own. Together, they escorted the man outside and the dancer watched, incredulously, as the man disappeared from her sight. She looked over her shoulder, back to the only man still standing by the counter – but Reyes simply shrugged his shoulders and went back to his drink._

_It only took them a moment to make sure the poor man would never visit the nightclub again, and so the Overwatch agents came back inside, looking satisfied, and waiting for the dancer to show her appreciation. But the woman was already talking to some other man, an old aristocrat that seemed ridiculously out of place, and the conversation they were having seemed heated, to say the least._

_While Jack chose to join Gabriel for another round of drinks, Gerard approached the woman as if oblivious to the fact that she was no longer on her own – both the dancer and the moody aristocrat looked his way in a rather despondent fashion, just as if trying to let the intruder know that he was clearly interrupting something, so the agent raised his hands and apologized, even when a part of him could not understand that the woman would not show the slightest hint of a thank you, and walked back to the bar where his friends were waiting for him and scolding him with their eyes, as if he was a small child in need of a severe reprimand._

_“She’s way out of your league,” Jack told him the second he got the chance, “I know you asked us not to talk about the whole super soldier thing, but the difference is plain to see, my friend – and I think that, if given the chance, she would have chosen me,”_

_Gerard laughed, hysterically: it was clear that Morrison had the looks (and the muscles, and the TV spots, and the city posters, and the unmistakable poise of those who are natural born leaders) but he had the words. It was one of his biggest attributes: he could talk, and talk, and convince anyone of anything. Still, that young but bitter beauty with the distant eyes, the dark hair, and the long legs had turned her back on him, and now she was facing another kind of hell._

_The aristocrat held her by one of her arms. He was dragging her outside._

_It seemed, and the three of them could agree on this, that the woman was prone to this sort of scenes._

_“Not going out there again, this time, she’s on her own,” Jack said, and Gerard would have loved to agree with him, except for the fact that, as the woman was being dragged out of the nightclub, her eyes found his in the dark._

_The pleading inside those irises was so powerful that even Gabriel considered the possibility of helping her. Still, Jack waited, and Gerard got caught in the middle of their contrasting positions._

_“Does this girl get in trouble very often?” Gabriel asked the bartender, but the man shrugged his shoulders, unable to understand Reyes’ language. “Fine by me,” he slammed a hand against the counter as he got on his feet, “I guess we’ll be skipping the research part of the job tonight,”_

_Jack and Gerard moved right after Gabriel, but the scene they found out in the street differed greatly from the one they were imagining. The woman was sitting on the sidewalk, and the aristocrat was standing before her, scolding her with unprecedented vehemence. Neither Jack nor Gabriel were able to understand the words coming out of his mouth, but Gerard was._

_“Tu es une deception,” the aristocrat told her, “je ne peux pas croire que ma propre fille est une putain,”_

_The woman was too stunned to fight back, so she didn’t say anything. Still, she held back the tears. Even when Gabriel and Jack asked Gerard for a translation, the French agent refused – language had already allowed him to step inside her privacy, adding more people to the picture seemed disrespectful, to say the least._

_When the aristocrat left, and the woman stayed there, sitting alone on the sidewalk, agent Lacroix abandoned his group and walked up to her. He tried to ask her if she was alright, but the answer to that question was written all over her face – so he took a step back, giving her space, and the woman nodded her head, acknowledging his presence._

_Jack walked up to them, extending one of his hands but the woman shook her head, refusing._

_“Do you need any help?” the super soldier said, but the dancer simply shook her head again, more vigorously than before, and looked at agent Lacroix,_

_“Il ne parle pas français,” Gerard whispered, “pas un seul mot,”_

_Not entirely ready to give up just yet, Morrison went on, “Do you need a lift? Or perhaps we can buy you a drink, whatever you need, just say it,”_

_The dancer tilted her head, unable to understand a single word coming out of his mouth._

_“Je…” Morrison was struggling, “Jack. Tu… help?”_

_“Give it a rest, Jack,” Gerard begged, “it’s quite clear she doesn’t understand English, you can’t speak French and I’m not a public translator,”_

_It was up to Reyes to grab the other super soldier by the shoulder and make him retreat before he became an irredeemable fool in the eyes of that young woman._

_“Vous devez penser que je suis un désastre,” she said as she stood up slowly and Gerard offered her his hand. They walked back inside the nightclub while Morrison and Reyes stared at them, nearly stupefied. As they walked on by, Jack tried to grab onto Gerard’s shoulder, but the French agent paid no mind and just kept walking. The couple disappeared behind the curtains of a private booth and the blond super soldier went back to the bar, confused and a little disheartened to know his looks had not been enough._

_But as Jack’s mind began to speculate wildly, trying to find the reasons why he hadn’t gotten the girl, the world inside that private booth was just starting to change._

_She didn’t dance that night, perhaps the dreams about the perfect ballet occupied her mind, but only in the landscape of her dreams. The agent stayed with her so that her boss would be off her case, at least for the night. He let her sleep until early morning, he did not ask her any questions, and only when daylight came, and the woman opened her eyes to find the Overwatch agent getting ready to leave, she finally thanked him, and the man turned around and smiled gently at her,_

_Then he asked,_

_“Peux-tu me dire ton nom?”_

_“Amelie.”_

He had learned about her the next day, as Gerard told them her name during breakfast. Back then, it was easier to think of her as a gold digger – at least his ego had been saved from the scandalous fact that the great Jack Morrison had been turned down so easily. Still, now, he wished he still was that heroic man from the posters. He wished he had the same determination he had shown in all those TV spots.

But his arm was still lingering before him; the door to her room, untouched and distant, was yet another barrier he could not trespass.

His hands deceived him, as they fell back to the sides of his body.

Then he turned around and went back to his room.

-

Translations for Part II:

_Tu es une déception –_ You’re a disappointment

 _Je ne peux pas croire que ma propre fille est une putain -_ I can't believe my own daughter is a whore

 _Vous devez penser que je suis un desastre -_ You must think I'm a disaster

 _Il ne parle pas français, pas un seul mot –_ He doesn’t speak French, not a single word

 _Peux-tu me dire ton nom? –_ Can you tell me your name?

.

.

.

**III – On the value that lies hidden in the things we always take for granted.**

A funeral for four should be an unprecedented event for most people. Mourning the departure of a single soul should be reason enough for the ones left behind to wander the earth, knowing they shall be forever missing a part of their lives. But the group of agents standing behind a couple of girls had already buried more friends than they could count and, even if it’s supposed to come with the job, the feeling of complete helplessness was persistent.

The debate stretched for a few hours prior to the beginning of the service – Meisa’s remaining daughters did not want their brothers to be buried with their mother and their older sister and even when Hanzo tried to intervene, he soon found himself realizing that trying to convince them to keep their relatives together made little to no sense at all. The story was way too familiar to pretend the feeling didn’t sting deep inside of him: the twins had murdered their own mother and one of their own sisters, perhaps their family had enjoyed a tale of unity and happiness when they were younger, but the end had been a nightmare, and it was clear the girls did not want to pretend otherwise.

Knowing Hanzo still felt guilty about the twins, it was up to Genji to sit down with the maid’s younger daughters and discuss the details of the funeral but when the women asked the Sparrow to allow their mother and sister to rest in the same place his parents were buried, he simply said no. The negative surprised the archer for a moment, then the reason behind Genji’s unexpected decision presented itself quite clearly: even if the maid had played a fundamental role in their lives after their mother’s tragic passing, they all knew Meisa had been Sojiro’s lover and, back then, it was pretty easy to hear the voices saying that one of the girls might even be a Shimada. Other rumors back then were cruel enough to point out that Meisa’s husband had met his end the second he found out the truth about his wife, his child and his master, so having Meisa resting by their own mother for all eternity seemed like an outrageous transgression, to say the least.

They agreed on letting the maid and her daughter find eternal rest in the family field, where many generations of clan members had been buried in the past – but then again, the big question was what to do with the twins and, again, the decision rested on the Sparrow’s shoulders.

“What about our tree?” he suggested, “There’s a big sakura tree in the garden, we used to sit there and play when we were younger. They can’t be with the rest of their family, but they could use the connection with the most innocent years of our lives,”

The girls agreed immediately but their affirmation omitted quite the fundamental detail: they wouldn’t even be attending their brothers’ funerals. The twins would go alone. Dishonored, and far from the shelter of compassion of their loved ones. So while the two women and the rest of the Overwatch agents currently deployed in Shimada Castle attended the funeral for the maid and her oldest daughter, it was up to the Shimada brothers to bury the twins and even if Jack and Jesse seemed more than eager to offer the former heirs a helping hand, Genji, once more, refused.

 The Sparrow never told Hanzo to stay by his side. Had it been completely up to him, he would have chosen to be alone – but his brother seemed determined. Undeterred, the former heir of the Shimada Empire had more than enough reasons to stay by Genji’s side during such a hard time: not only their wounded bond was finally beginning to heal but there was also the undeniable fact that Meisa and her children had been a constitutive part of his own childhood and, the least he could do in order to protect those memories, was to guard their departure with solemnity and respect.

It seemed almost ironic that the first thing the brothers were doing together was to dig a hole in the ground. Dirtied by the earth, their hands worked until late evening that day, until the roots of the sakura tree appeared before their eyes and there they left them, as they carefully placed the twins’ corpses where shame could not find them, resting by the warm origins of life.

“Why did you do this?” Hanzo asked as he sat down on the ground, exhausted. “We could have placed them in the local cemetery,”

Genji looked over his shoulder as his hands grabbed the shovel again,

“I’m returning the favor,” he said, moving up to finish his work, “when Father died, the twins and I were no longer friends but they were there for me, supporting the one I was no more, keeping our childhood memories safe,” he got on his knees, once his work was done, and closed his eyes for a moment, “this is where the memory of a much simpler time lays, brother. It’s our job to keep it safe,” he opened his eyes, and looked at his brother, “this castle is a mausoleum, Hanzo. Everywhere I look I only find death and goodbyes… this entire place is a temple for the dead,”

Hanzo didn’t move but still watched as Genji got on his feet, discarding the shovel almost immediately. He walked towards his older brother and sat down beside him,

“What is it?” Hanzo asked, anticipating the question written all over his brother’s face.

“I just want to know,” Genji began, a bit dubious, “when you heard that I’m the only original bond she has made,” he paused, uncertain, “I need to know how you feel about that, Hanzo,”

The older dragon scratched his chin, looking displeased by Genji’s straightforwardness in spite of the labyrinth of words that had nearly kept him captive inside his own mouth,

“Well, it doesn’t make me happy,” he confessed, “I… made an effort, I opened up, I gave her everything I had and then she tried to kill me,” he grinned, but the sorrow in his eyes was clearly not going anywhere, “but she’s a victim, just like you are, Genji – so maybe all those times you said she had more things in common with you, maybe you were right after all,”

Genji nodded his head once, silently, relieved to know that Hanzo did not hate him. The older Shimada stared at his brother for a while but eventually broke eye contact and looked down, then embraced himself, wrapping his knees with his own arms,

“Genji, do you believe in karma?”

There was a long pause that stretched between them, as the first stars appeared in a sky getting darker by the second. Yet the right answer was still elusive: “yes” meant that he still was waiting for his brother to face some sort of punishment for the mistakes the archer had made in the past, but “no” meant that he still could not find the proper balance between light and darkness.

“Han,” How many centuries had flown by since he had last called his brother that? “I know you won’t talk to Zenyatta, and I also know you may think it’s too soon for you to use me as your confidant, but since you’ve found yourself a friend, use him: talk to Jack, that’s what friends are for, brother,” he pleaded, “don’t keep it all bottled up, I remembered it took me some time, but I eventually learned how to trust Jesse back then, when we were still Blackwatch. You need someone to talk to, just like I did, all those years ago,”

Hanzo nodded his head once but didn’t say anything.

“It’s not like you and Jack are going to end up like Jesse and I did,” Genji attempted at humor, but the seriousness in Hanzo’s tone was now matching the distance in his eyes,

“Of course we won’t,” he said, “we know how we feel – and we know we don’t feel for the same person,”

“And you both know that what you feel is genuine,” Genji added, matching Hanzo’s tone, “Jack doesn’t feel gratitude like I do - and you don’t feel the need to keep someone in your life in order to preserve the darkest days of your past like Jesse does,”

Mouth agape, Hanzo leaned closer to his brother and lowered his voice,

“So you know?”

“That Jack loves Angela?” the Sparrow finished for him, “Yes, Hanzo. Jesse and I, we both know but up until now, we never saw him as a real threat – you’d think the man screwed all his chances when he chose to lie to her, but she wants him too, Hanzo,” he looked down, shaking his head, “and ever since we got here, we’ve been blocking this reality with distractions: I was brooding, acting all moody because I couldn’t get through to you, Jesse stormed off…”

“But what happens if you ignore all distractions?” Hanzo asked, patting his brother’s shoulder,

“You see things as they are, brother,” the Sparrow let out softly, “we’ve been trying to catch the sun in our hands, and now we’re burning,” he sentenced, “and when I see her, struggling to deny everything she feels for that man I wonder why I don’t feel jealous of him, I wonder why I feel so selfish instead – I wonder if it’s alright to be this selfish; I wonder how long are we going to hold her a hostage, because that’s what she is to us, brother: a hostage of our needs,”

“A hostage of your needs,” Hanzo repeated out loud, coloring his brother’s words with a more personal hue, “I wanted Amelie to stay because I needed her by my side, but I didn’t stop to think she might want something other than adorning my side,” Genji questioned him with surprised eyes, yet the Sparrow chose silence over words, “I’m starting to think we should get her back to Gibraltar,”

“Are you going to leave her all alone?” Genji finally asked, “Are you going to go with her until she recovers?”

“She won’t recover,” it was cruel, and it was terrible, but it was also irrevocably true, “and I have already made up my mind about the things I want to do, brother: I want to stay here, I want to fill this place with good actions,” he paused, brokenhearted, “of course I would have wanted her to stay here with me but we’ll make it work. I’ll visit her and perhaps if she feels better she can come home, from time to time and we can,”

“Hanzo, she can’t stay with the others in Hanamura,” Genji pointed out, interrupting him, “they’ll put her in a cage, brother, and there she’ll stay, forever,”

He did not want to think about that possibility, couldn’t afford to.

The past they had shared set in his eyes and consumed the little light left in him. He saw himself sitting on her bed, back in Gibraltar, back then when the lavender shadows were still coloring her skin. He remembered the azure, then the light-blue, then her paleness in the darkness of a room that only he would visit. He remembered waiting for those eyes of hers to see him. He remembered that ulterior hope invading his chest and shaping up a brand new faith.

He didn’t say anything, but Genji didn’t ask any questions either. He knew Hanzo’s ego would prevent his brother from asking the simplest of things: _what should I do? What can I do?_ \- but at the same time, Genji knew that even if Hanzo managed to quiet the voices in his head, he still couldn’t provide him with an answer.

“I can’t shake the feeling that maybe I was right,” Hanzo whispered after a while of complete silence, “when I was trying to push her away, like every time she would call and I wouldn’t pick up the phone – the second I started to feel something for that woman, I knew I had to leave – but she didn’t let me,” his fist landed against the earth, desolated, “I should have been stronger, I should have tried harder,”

“You would have felt like dying anyway,” the Sparrow cut him off before he could go on, “stop mortifying yourself, Hanzo, what’s done is done. If anything, I’m glad you faced those feelings, instead of running away from them,”

“I should have known, Genji,” the dragon yelled, “I should have realized that something was not right with her,”

“That’s Morrison’s line,” Genji tried to help him, “Han, you read the report – none of this is your fault. Everything seemed to indicate that she was,”

“Falling,” Hanzo whispered and Genji nodded, smiling timidly.

“Yes, brother. Is that so hard to believe?” The Sparrow moved closer to Hanzo, “That someone could see something good in you, that someone could even go as far as to fall for someone like you? There’s value in the fact that you chose to live a decade in pain and regret; any coward would have chosen death – and there’s value in the fact that even if you know her feelings are not real, you still haven’t said that the two of you are no longer together,” Genji patted his brother’s nearest shoulder as Hanzo began to undress his most intimate feelings,

“I like her,” he confessed, falling short in his own emotions and visibly ashamed of his sentimental limitations - but Genji smiled.

“You love her,”

Genji got to his feet and stood behind Hanzo. He wrapped his arms around the dragon for an instant until he smiled again, and rested both his hands on his brother’s shoulders. He leaned in, albeit hesitatingly, and kissed the top of Hanzo’s head with a tenderness he had not shown in a very long time. In the onyx blanket of night, the dragon received Genji’s peace offering with a foreign sense of tranquility and reciprocated the gesture, giving the Sparrow his silent complicity – birds were like that, he knew, if he wanted a tiny little sparrow to remain by his side he would have to be careful not to scare it off.

“Perhaps you should be the one talking to her,” Hanzo mused, “Jack couldn’t do it, and I know I can’t do it either: the second she looks into my eyes I’ll cave in, Genji.”

There was a soft humming sound coming from the Sparrow’s lips, a soft affirmation that had nothing to do with the artificiality of synthesizers. An almost harmonic pause.

As Genji began to walk away, he heard his older brother talking in the distance,

“Your omnic friend spoke to me today, once the meeting was over,” Hanzo said, “he asked me if the illusion of love is, also, a type of love. At first I thought it was some sort of riddle, because I know that, for a feeling to be real, it needs to exist and the illusion of a feeling is nothing but a shallow appearance,” he smiled, even if his brother could not see it, “I don’t know what he was trying to tell me, but I can’t stop thinking about it,”

“Zenyatta does that a lot,” Genji offered, “but I’m afraid I don’t have the answer you’re looking for.” He marched in the dark, his shining armor illuminating the night, “but there’s one thing I can say, brother: even if she can’t feel love like the rest of us can, the fact that she is compelled to murder the one she loves proves that some variation of the feeling exists inside of her,” he smiled in the dark, even if his brother could not see it, “maybe her love and your love are not the same thing, but that doesn’t mean one is necessarily better than the other.”

Rocked by the warm winds, the archer closed his eyes. Far away, in the distance, his brother’s steps still resounded in the night.

.

.

.

**IV – On our tied hands.**

He had Dr. Beuhs’ report in one hand, and the brain scans that Ana had sent to Angela in the other. He had decided he would not be lacking information so now that he had convinced Jack into letting him do all the talking, he finally had all the answers in his hands. But the second he pushed the door open, he got swallowed by the thick darkness of that room. A certain stale odor invaded his nostrils with every step he took, traveling quickly through the metal covering the larger portion of his face.

It was hard to see her silhouette in the eternal night they had created for her. Only when he stood a few inches away from the bed he could finally decode those long legs of hers, trapped firmly against her stomach. The woman didn’t move when he sat on the bed, the shifting weight that his body had procured didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest.

Her breathing was dangerously slow. If he had to be honest with himself, little was there to tell him that he was not visiting a corpse. After a while of uncomfortable silence, the cyborg ninja stood up and walked back to the door, but only when she sensed his absence, the woman turned and called out in the dark,

“Are you here to kill me?” she asked, sitting down on the bed, “Because I thought if someone was to come over and talk to me, it would be either Jack or Angela. But since it’s you, Genji, maybe it means my time is up,”

The Sparrow took a step forward, moving closer to the bed again but keeping his distance from the French sniper.

“What makes you think I want to kill you?” he asked, but his question was followed by silence. He approached the bed with caution, sitting on the edge and leaving the papers aside – the sniper moved away from him, her hands curled into fists.

“Punishment,” she said, “because I hurt your brother,”

“I’m not here to punish you, Amelie,” he tried to sound reassuring, but the doubt in his voice was not helping him.

“They killed the twins,” she said, her voice softer than before, “the second they realized they had been brainwashed… why should you keep me alive?”

Genji leaned in closer, trying to reach for one of her hands but the woman did not let him.

“It’s not the same,” he whispered, “they were attacking their family, they killed their mother and one of their sisters,”

“I tried to kill your brother,” Amelie cut him off, “and unless you kill me now, I will try again, Genji – and I won’t stop until he’s dead,”

Even if her words had been stained with an unusual violence, there was not a single trace of malice in her voice. Her weak diction had made it clear for the Sparrow: she didn’t want to kill Hanzo, but she wasn’t strong enough to keep herself from harming the man she had chosen. The ninja tried to turn on the light but the woman refused, catching his hand mid-air before his fingers could reach for the switch – so he moved away from her, and opened a small window as an attempt to let some light in. The woman shifted in bed, still protected by the whimsical patterns of shadows dancing by the curtains and then he saw it: countless trays with food she had not eaten were still resting by her nightstand, along with several glasses of water she had not drunk and sedatives – lots and lots of sedatives.

“I’m not here to kill you, and you will not kill Hanzo,” Genji spoke softly as he sat down on the bed again, “I’ll make sure of it,”

She fidgeted, sensing a proximity she did not want to share with anybody ever again, but the ninja trapped her in his arms, resting her head on his shoulder and the woman breathed hard through parted lips, rejoicing in the coldness of his body and allowing the sensation to fool her senses into thinking that he was not human – even when her mind was telling her otherwise.

“How’s Jack doing?” she asked, and her question startled him,

“We attended a funeral today, thanks to Talon – while you were locked up in a distant room, isolated from the rest of us,” he somehow managed to say, “the feeling is too familiar, Amelie,”

Genji gave her a moment, but the question he was longing to hear never came,

“Aren’t you going to ask me about Hanzo?” he demanded, but the woman broke the embrace and shook her head in silence. She covered her face with her hands and moved away from the ninja -

“I love your brother,” she whispered,

“No, you don’t,” he said, “you want to, but you can’t – but my brother really does love you, that’s the problem.”

A problem. A heartbreaking problem. He had thought about Hanzo’s inability to feel or express love many times before but now that the feeling had finally found him, it could not be reciprocated except for the twisted kind of affection she had to offer: an affection that could kill him. An affection that she could recognize now, in the name of a love that could not exist – at least, not in the parameters of an actual, healthy emotion. The second she knew she was in love with Hanzo, it was over. The second she felt that love spreading rapidly through her system, the voices in her head were already commanding her to kill him.

He should have felt happy for his brother. Hanzo had found someone, he had opened up and he had been loved in return. But the love he had found was fake – the love he had found was trying to kill him.

They had stolen his happy ending. They had ruined his entire story.

He gave her the file and the scans for the woman to learn the details of her own story and watched as her face changed in the darkest hours of the night – the horror imprinted on those pages was preventing her from feeling anything at all but still, he could see her pieces struggling for that hatred.

Once she was done reading, and the Sparrow was done explaining every difference between the report and the scans, she threw the papers aside and tried to stand up, but her body didn’t let her. The woman stumbled and the ninja caught her before her knees could kiss the ground, keeping her safe in his arms once again. He could see the thunder in her eyes – he could see the storm gathering inside.

“In the beginning, it was all pain and suffering for me,” he remembered, “until I met Zenyatta… you need time, Amelie, even if you won’t be able to feel any positive feelings again, I’m sure things are going to get better,”

“How?” she lashed out at him, “how are things going to get better? I have this… _thing_ inside my head, constantly telling me to kill your brother, and it’s not going to stop until he’s gone, how are things going to get better?” Genji tried to hold her, but the coldness in her stare made him stay right where he was, “I’m going to kill them,” she hissed venomously, “all of them – for me, for Gerard, for your brother… I will destroy them, Genji, I’m going to make them pay for what they did to us,”

The feeling was simply too familiar. He had been there before, cursing the clan, planning his revenge.

“How long have you felt like this?” he finally asked, “how long have you been trying to kill my brother?”

“Things… started to get complicated when we got closer.” She confessed, “Every time he would open up I would open up as well – at first it was warm, even natural. But then it was worse. That night in the pond, when he said he wanted me to stay here with him,” she paused, biting her lips until she tasted her own blood waltzing around her gums, “that’s when I knew I loved him – and that’s when I knew I had to kill him,” her rage, evident and unavoidable, propelled her body forwards and, in a weak attempt at channeling her frustration, Amelie kicked the trays and the glasses. Countless shards came to prickle her feet and brand new rivers of crimson red began to stream down her toes, leaving traces of her broken self wherever she went.

But when the red turned into the vision of such a desolated world, the woman kneeled down and took one of the shards with trembling fingers that were eager to give up the fight. Genji watched her in silence, as the glass came to rest on top of her wrist - she lacked the determination to end her own life yet the impulse was still there, the notion that her love was only going to harm Hanzo was powerful enough to cloud her judgment.

He stopped her before she could harm herself and there she stayed, curled up against the metal biding his body, chained to a rhetoric sadness she knew wasn’t real.

“I always knew Talon wanted to use me,” she said, “they wanted your brother to join, they have always wanted to establish a connection with your clan. I knew they wanted to expand their territory and they were interested in Japan but, in order to become fully operational, they said they needed to reestablish the ancient system of clans that had ruled in the past. They used to say it would only take a Shimada to make it all come true,”

“So they used you as bait?” Genji asked, “The night when we captured you – was this their plan all along? To make my brother fall for you?”

The woman shook her head,

“I guess they never thought he would fall for me,” she confessed, “but they were counting on the fact that he might be able to feel this sort of connection between us since we both murdered those we cared about the most… they said the connection could make him vulnerable, permeable. When they realized Hanzo and you were getting closer to each other, when they connected the dots and noticed that the closer he was to you, the closer he was to Overwatch, they decided to put their plan in motion,” she could see the guilt in his eyes, she could see regret and fear, taking hold of him, “I’m still a tool for them, Genji. I never stopped being their tool – I’m completely indolent, just like a doll, they dress me up for the occasion but there’s nothing more to me; there’s nothing else _in_ me,” she was crying, even when they both knew those tears would never be able to express an actual feeling, “When Angela helped me, I thought I was finally free. I wasn’t the one I had been before Talon, but I wasn’t Widowmaker either – it was up to me, then, to find the one I wanted to be.” She took a deep breath – even if she had finally let go of all her secrets, she was far from feeling relieved, “I understand now what I feel for your brother is not real, Genji, I do – but I can’t stop feeling it,”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” he questioned, “the second you felt something was wrong, we could have helped,”

Amelie shook her head and offered him a half-smile – their intentions, no matter how good or noble, would have never sufficed.

He cursed himself under his breath and she noticed his despair, so she placed her hands on both sides of his face, and questioned him with eyes that seemed unable to understand the complexity of his character,

“I thought Hanzo and you could find redemption together,” he lamented, “that’s why I was so pushy back then, that’s why I convinced him to join me for that mission – of course I never thought he was going to fall for you, I just thought you two could use each other’s company, I thought you could rely on each other, I can’t believe I was so innocent,” he looked away, defeated, “the worst part is that, in retrospective, this could have been the cruelest vengeance ever. I could have never planned something so perfect, something so horrifyingly perfect: make him fall for someone who is unable to feel, make him love someone whose sole purpose is to kill the man she loves,”

Maybe this was the price they were supposed to pay after so many years of mistreatment and abuse.

Maybe this was the price they were supposed to pay after so many years of useless silence: if he had told his brother why he needed his help, Hanzo would have never accepted. If he had told him he was only trying to help him, the archer would have refused.

“At least now I can’t say he doesn’t know anything about love,” Genji whispered as he stood up, and offered her a hand – she was about to take it when the archer knocked on the door and called out his brother’s name.

“Don’t tell him,” Amelie pleaded in panic, “don’t tell him I knew, Genji, I don’t want to cause him any more pain,”

Genji opened his mouth, but no words came out of it. He could either tell Jack the truth about Amelie, in order to protect his brother from any physical harm, or he could just play along and keep quiet in order to protect Hanzo’s already wounded heart. He knew for a fact that the body cannot survive without the heart, and vice versa, so standing at the crossroads, the ninja knew he was only going to be able to save half a brother – the other half would succumb to darkness and pain, irremediably.

Another knock on the door and her eyes pleaded in silence until the Sparrow nodded his head, still unsure about what to do, but trying his best to protect his brother.

When Hanzo stepped into the room, his eyes could not look away from the image of that woman, a mess of black and blood on the floor that differed greatly from the immaculate body he still treasured inside his mind. He saw the shards of glass, he saw the untouched food – he saw everything. The archer approached her and she stood up, weakly, touching the tip of his fingers with her dirty hands,

“So you knew,” Hanzo said, and the woman nodded, visibly ashamed. He swallowed hard before asking, “So, you love me?”

She nodded again,

“Yes,”

He smiled, even when he knew it was all a lie of the mind.

“You know what they say, if you love me, you’ll kill me,” he tried to laugh, but the tears in her eyes stopped him,

“Your sense of humor is a tragedy,” she said, and the Sparrow smiled timidly, trying his best not to interrupt.

“I know,” Hanzo let out softly, his body ready to reach out and touch her, yet frozen in place before her.

“What are you doing here, Hanzo?” Amelie questioned, “Aren’t you afraid I might try to hurt you again?”

The archer scoffed at her question, even if he hated himself for allowing such a gratuitous demonstration of his pride to reach the outside so easily,

“Me? Afraid of you?” His tone was softer now, his cheeks were turning red, “Please, woman… not everything’s about you,”

A weak smile and open arms, for her to find him again. Yet the question in the back of her throat still burned.

“Do you love me?”

The archer turned around and stared at his brother but the ninja crossed his arms over his chest,

“I’m not going anywhere, Hanzo – so suck it up and be a man,”

Staring into her eyes, the archer nodded in silence and the woman tilted her head to the side, looking confused,

“I can’t hear you,” she said, and the dragon roared inside, clearly frustrated.

“Yes,” the tone of his voice was lower than a whisper, maybe even softer than air. “you make me feel needed, trusted… loved,”

 “You are,” she said - real or not, it was intrinsically true.

“I’m not used to that. I got carried away by it, and I didn’t stop to make sure you felt that way too, needed, trusted, loved,” Hanzo went on, “but you are.” With his pause came the silence she had grown to adore, the silence he had offered her back then, before the fall and before the nightmare.

“I have missed your silence,” she said, “lately, we’ve been talking way too much,”

He held her in his arms, her shape close to his,

“I’ll give you silence if that’s what you need,” the archer offered,

“I need you,” she begged, with eyes full of empty tears that could not carry the love she was unable to feel – yet the soft touch of his hands on her hair, the warmth of his breath against her neck; it was all, indeed, such a perfect illusion.

Genji tapped Hanzo's shoulder lightly, indicating his brother it was time to go – but the archer shook his head ever so gently, trying his best not to startle the woman.

“You can’t stay here, Hanzo,” the Sparrow said, “you can’t be alone with her,”

Amelie broke the embrace and nodded softly at him but the archer took the hair ribbon that was keeping his hair in place, and laced it around her wrists, determined to restrict her movements but careful not to hurt her.

“I’m staying,” he said, 

Brokenhearted, the ninja left the room in silence and the archer led her back to the bed. She rested her head against his chest, her tied hands would keep her from causing him any harm.

Outside the illusion, and back into reality, Genji rested his back against their cold, bedroom door and waited for the sun to break, awake and ready to protect his brother.


	14. The Enemy Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That sounds so sad,” she laughed, even if her eyes were filled with tears, “from rooftop to rooftop, from my blue to your blue..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just like I did in chapter 7, the different tenses between segments imply that the actions are occurring simultaneously.

Variations on a Theme

Act XIV

**The Enemy Within**

* * *

 

**Part I**

 

_“She’s never where she is. She’s only inside her head.”_

Janet Fitch — White Oleander

 

**I – If her words leave your mouth, are you still the only one talking?**

The smell of freshly made coffee traveled up his nostrils and filled his lungs with the certainty that morning had finally arrived. A familiar boot tapped softly against his metallic leg as a weak attempt at hello, then the infamous hat covered his face with its thick shadow and the cowboy got on one knee and took a good look at him: resting his back against the door, as if expecting something; his blade waiting in his hands – had his fingers been organic, he would have lost his touch sometime during the night.

“I never thought of you as a chaperone,” the cowboy mumbled as he sat down beside the cyborg, stretching his legs. Genji smirked at Jesse, but chose not to say anything in response: for the first time in his life, he was the one enduring the effects of an emotional rollercoaster while Hanzo seemed to have it all figured out and, even if the archer and the French sniper were surely about to face the most crucial hours of their tragic love affair, the fact that his brother had chosen to stay with her spoke volumes about the man he had become.

“That’s because I’m not,” Genji retorted after a while, “and please, don’t ever use that word around my brother… there’s a whole other side to Hanzo you don’t want to see,” the ninja said, tilting his head to the side quickly, trying to stop Jesse’s face from evidencing the obvious: they all knew there was a whole other side to Hanzo, and the scars scattered across the Sparrow’s face were more than eloquent. A moment of silence followed, then the restless eyes of the former player came to greet the gentle presence with his usual, charming rebelliousness, “you look awful, McCree, did you stay up all night again?”

A soft nod, and the coffee danced dangerously inside the old cup – the metallic fingers commanding the waltz were adventurously reckless.

“But you’re missing the suave smile you usually…” Genji mocked him, “so I take it you stayed up all night, but not in a fun kind of way,”

Cup on the ground, perhaps to still the dancing coffee and his eyes, bored into the brown pools of weariness still fighting the effects of such a long night.

“Says the ninja who spent the night outside his older brother’s door, holding on to his sword, praying Amelie doesn’t kill him in his sleep,” tentatively, his hand landed on the Sparrow’s shoulder and there it stayed, warm flesh against metal.

“You know…” the cyborg began “this is unprecedented: for the first time ever, Hanzo could be the one giving me sentimental advice, and not the other way around,”

He knew the path like the back of his own hand: under the right circumstances, surrounded by the right company and allowing time to heal all wounds everyone could change. Everyone could find redemption. That was the number one rule in the Overwatch book: there was a silver lining waiting for everyone. Even if Hanzo’s silver lining included a worried sibling and a sharp blade, always ready to strike if necessary.

“So, you really stayed here all night, huh?”

Genji nodded softly, taking Jesse’s coffee in his hands if only to enjoy the comforting panacea of the aroma. When the hot beverage returned to its rightful owner, though, the ninja’s eyes were shrouded in a question he could no longer hide so he braced himself for the worst, even when a part of him was still waiting for a miracle.

“Where did you get that file, Jesse?” Genji asked without looking into McCree’s eyes. “Who gave you the report?”

“Does it really matter?” The cowboy mused, “The name, Genji – it’s just a name,” her words were in his mouth, rolling off his tongue and impregnating his diction but still, she was nowhere to be found. Joel and Jesse were not the same man, and Sombra differed greatly from Olivia even if she had tried to fool herself for such a long time. There was a limit to identity, they knew, a barrier that could not be erased by any moniker.

“I guess it doesn’t,” the ninja whispered as he stood up and the cowboy stared at him, realizing that Morrison had kept his secret. It didn’t strike Jesse as a surprise, the former Strike-Commander surely knew the definition of the word discretion. “Still I would like to know, Jesse – I’d like to know who’s been on your mind lately,”

There was not a single trace of reproach in his voice, not a single note of malice or discord traveling beyond the limits of his synthesized vocal cords – just genuine concern, mixed with the evident anguish of an anticipated nostalgia. Perhaps he still cared about him, perhaps he still loved him after all.

Their kisses had never been soft. They were rough, oftentimes tattooed with the indelible ink that illustrates urgency and the asphyxiating need of having someone close. Still far beyond metal, and somewhere past the scruffy beard, there lies a place where they once loved to meet. They recognized the path as soon as they opened their eyes to gradually welcome the other in the light that had been extinguished long ago, like a mourning supernova, unblemished and bright in the afterglow of a love that was no more. Their star had faded in the eternal night that had covered all their visions, still, in their eyes, traces of its ancestral beauty still remained, warm and insurgent, like fragmented visions of the feeling they had once shared.

The same love that had never been enough to define either one of them.

“Is it over already?” The cowboy cooed against the ninja’s mouth, his lips barely parted, “I mean, we knew this couldn’t last forever but,”

Another kiss, longer this time, as if trying to commit his lips to memory. Then silence, and a little distance, then the voice found him again, lacking the answers he was hoping to find but still certain and honest.

“I just latched onto the love you two had,” Genji admitted, “I wanted to have a taste, I needed to belong – you are a fine companion, Jesse… but all throughout the years, I could never shake the feeling that, by attaching myself to your love story, I was inevitably hurting our friendship.”

The cowboy tried to silence him but the ninja didn’t let him. Metal against his radiating warmth, a touch that had burnt through his sun-kissed skin so many times before – the taste of his own youth, mixed with tobacco and alcohol, the aroma of his existence drawing patterns across the shiny vessel containing the friend, the partner, the lover…

“I did hurt our friendship,” the Sparrow lamented, “and I also hurt what you and Angela had before me and now that you’re seeing someone, I don’t even have the energy to fight you, or the will to stop you,”

“You know?”

The ninja nodded in silence, fingers intertwined in the cold embrace of metal.

“I know you’re no longer ours, Jesse,” Genji confirmed, “and I also know she’s never been truly ours – well, yours maybe but mine… she was never mine, cowboy.” He stood up, his hand offered to Jesse – “you were always there for me when I needed you the most, but I can’t do this anymore, Jesse – it’s like you said, for three people to share a romantic bond, some very specific requirements are a must,”

“You said we had ‘em,” Jesse whispered, “You said we had what it takes to,”

A soft smile and his voice trailed off. The gesture, austere yet immensely rich in all its wisdom, dividing his expressions, compartmentalizing the broken heart.

“I lied, cowboy,” he fought back the tears, even when he knew it was pointless, “you have her, and she has him and I… I have a window, Jesse, a window that lets me see a wife that is not my wife, and a child that is not my son,” he paused, as the cowboy’s arms wrapped him up in their warm embrace, “they should have been, Jesse, but they’re not,”

The cowboy planted a soft kiss on his forehead, his arms still sheltering the Sparrow,

“It’s not fair, Jesse,” the ninja whispered, “so here’s your freedom, at last.”

“And what about Angie?” Jesse asked, “Have you talked to her yet?”

“I will,” Genji said as he finally broke the embrace, “she could use a little freedom too,” a weak smile, no more than perhaps a lopsided grin – then he looked down, unable to watch the man go, but the cowboy lingered in the hallway, arms hanging loosely at the sides of his body,

“It’s Sombra,” he confessed, and the ninja’s wide-eyed gaze made him smile helplessly, “but chances are I already screwed up,”

Only then he turned around, longs legs marching out of his sight, and the sound of his spurs – that irritating song of his.

“Hey, Jesse,” the ninja called out, “just don’t die out there,”

The cowboy tipped his hat as he kept moving forward. The smile curling up his lips was not powerful enough to reach his eyes.

"Careful what you wish, Shimada,"

.

.

.

**II – Seminar**

When she opened her eyes in the morning, the archer was watching her with renewed intent. Her hands were still tied, and even if the man had already woken up and changed his clothes, he had yet to grant her the freedom she still longed for but, as unnerving as it was, the soft gaze traveling up and down her shape was reason enough for the sniper to feel safe in the controlled proximity he had to offer.

Hanzo buried his elbow on the pillow as he lay on his side, facing her, but only for a short while. Before the woman had time to adjust to the comforting warmth of his body, the man leaned in closer and finally untied her hands. Then he sat on her bed and watched her as she moved around peacefully, her hands rubbing her own wrists. When he told her to change, and his index finger pointed at Amelie’s training attire waiting for her on her nightstand, the woman offered him a puzzled look, but the former heir waved his hands dismissively,

“I talked to Angela earlier this morning,” he explained, “I told her I wanted to take you to the library again, play some music on the piano for you – and perhaps you could dance if you feel like it,”

She looked over her shoulder as her blue t-shirt slid down her torso: she was worried, there was no point trying to hide it.

“I once read that music can be therapeutic,” Hanzo offered, “it was an old article, but they said singing and dancing can help,”

Amelie bit her bottom lip – the fact that he was willing to try the impossible was heartbreaking.

“And Angela thinks this is a good idea?” She asked, “For us to be alone in the library?” When she saw him nodding his head at her, she approached him with careful steps, “I can’t dance with my hands tied,”

“I know,”

The woman took a deep breath: his willingness to try was contagious, still, it was her job to remain calm through the storm,

“You understand that this is not a condition that can be cured, right?”

He nodded again and placed a soft kiss on her forehead,

“I do, but even if there’s no fixing you, that doesn’t mean I won’t try to make you feel better,” his words made her smile and, even if the gesture was weak, it was enough for the man to smile as well, “I can take care of myself, Amelie – I’m still breathing after all, right?”

In a matter of seconds his fingers were eliciting entire melodies with a gentle pulse and thoughtful disposition and her legs graced the entire room around them, waltzing her way through the pain and the fear.

Even if his melodies were still accompanying her every move, her legs only danced for a little more than ten minutes. Then the spiraling waltz slowed the rhythmic cadence of her anatomy, her shoulders became stiff and suddenly her face was anchored to the whirlpool of images displayed right before her eyes. She wondered, then, if perhaps she had never seen that face before, when he had played his music for her, when he had tried to right his wrong. There, amongst books and old logs and records, pictures of another time were presenting her with memories of a world she had yet to see: his mother and his father, together and happy, back then when death was just a distant finale and the arms of a new lover were an unreachable harbor; the siblings in their childhood, with Genji’s toothy smile and Hanzo’s mischievous grin.

She stared at his image for a while then rose to her tiptoes once again, turning around ever so slightly, and contemplated the man he had become – the one giving away his music for a chance to spend another moment with her, the one with the broad shoulders and the tired muscles – the leader, the fallen, the penitent, the brother, the lover, the mercenary.

Tears should have filled her eyes, but her visions still remained as dry as a desert, waiting for the vacuum of positive emotions to find her once more and still, stoic in front of the call of such insidious siren’s songs. The lack of emotions became, once again, the only feeling left for her to hold on to. She took his photo in her hands, fingers sliding against the old wooden frame, caressing the memory of a Hanzo she never knew.

The melody and the silence coalesced into a single moment of absence – and there she saw it, the last picture, carefully hidden in the bookshelf as if trying to prevent strangers from catching a glimpse of a past that was worth hiding. The young heir, with his velvety black hair covering half his face, muted expressions lost in the confusing corridors of adolescence, and a small child by his side.

Her hair is dark and her eyes glow in the lights of yesterday’s celebration. They stand next to each other, close to one another. But she’s a child. She’s just a little girl. She doesn’t belong with him.

“Who’s this?” The question found her before she could even breathe, and his music stopped for a second, a mere dissonance in an otherwise pleasant journey. He could have lied to her – quite easily. He could have told her that the girl was a cousin, a friend or, perhaps, even a distant relative; the picture was placed among the images of so many relatives it would have actually made sense. Still, it was hard not to think of her as family, even after all those years – that’s how the clan had operated back then, after all: they had forced him to watch her grow, they had made sure he would feel the attachment bloom year after year.

“Misaki,” he said, as if the name alone was enough for Amelie to understand. His hands went back to the piano, but the notes had clearly faded from his fingers – his music had left him alone, and unsheltered.

The ballerina approached him and sat next to him, the photograph still resting in her hands.

“She is the woman I should have married,” he explained, “if I had stayed with the clan,”

In her eyes, a mixture of horror and relief.

“But she’s a child,” the Frenchwoman whispered, “you look so much older than…”

“I was,” he said, interrupting her with his soft-spoken truth, “I still am – if my calculations are right, she must be twenty-seven now,”

Her hands were trembling. A silent kind of tension was taking hold of her. He tried placing his arms around her shoulders but the woman moved away from him, too absorbed in her own thoughts. After a while, she stood up again and placed the picture back in its place,

“You’re almost forty years old,” she pondered, “she’d still be much too young for you,”

Hanzo nodded his head but chose not to tell her about the events of those years even when his mind wandered back to the image of that desperate young girl, thriving for his kiss, the last time they met. He had never loved her, but he had never gotten the chance to say goodbye to the woman that would have given him children.

He tried to play again, but the music had completely forsaken him. Then, with eyes that knew no truce, he contemplated her face as the woman struggled against the stormy thoughts inside her head – “I thought you would ask me about her,” he whispered, as his finger hovered before her, finding its way back to the photograph of his mother. Amelie shook her head in silence, trying to break free from the voices and the questions,

“You already told me about her,” she remembered, “you always speak so dearly of your mother – but you never mentioned this girl before – I mean, you told me you were promised to somebody else when you were younger, but I thought you didn’t care about her, I thought you saw her as just another burden,”

“I did not love her, that’s for sure,” Hanzo said, “but I cared about her, I watched her grow, I watched her endure the merciless indoctrination that the clan put her through since she was a toddler, with no weapons to fight their dogma, without a voice for them to hear,” darkness set in his eyes as the archer reminisced, “in a way, she suffered the same torture I had suffered while growing up, but while I had been born into the yakuza, her parents had practically sold her to the clan – a future wife in exchange for money and power, it was so alluring back then, so rotten and vicious,”

It was hard not to picture the decrepit faces of the elders as they threw Misaki’s underwear across the table, the symptoms of time in the shape of a woman he would never possess were speaking of a duty they could not outrun. It had taken him years to understand the scene – only a Shimada can control the dragons, and the dragon lord needed a successor. Misaki was nothing but a shimmering light at his side, a souvenir of humanity, eroded and out of context in the life he had to offer. But if she was not the one to give him children, it was his obligation to spread the seed and take root in the world for generations to come to testify the true legacy of his lineage. Only a Shimada can control the dragons. It was blood. A name. A fine discourse for a cursed heritage.

“When I attacked Genji and left the clan, I ruined her life,” he lamented, “the elders broke the deal almost immediately, and while a part of me was glad her parents would no longer rejoice in their misplaced ambitions, I also knew that even if she was incredibly young, she didn’t know any other life. They had molded her for me, they had educated a future wife and now, now that I had thrown everything away, she became the unsung collateral damage to all my sins,” her hands cupped his, yet the man couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye, “I know I didn’t love her, and I know she would have lived the most miserable life – but still, I have always felt I let her down. That picture is a reminder, Amelie – that photograph testifies: it’s not about me, it’s not about Genji: it’s about an entire universe I destroyed with my bare hands. It’s about the consequences,”

Too absorbed in the lackluster mirages of his past, the archer did not hear the door as it swung open. Only when the doctor stood in front of the piano he lifted his chin to find her there.

“It’s been forty minutes, Hanzo,” Angela said, “baby steps, remember?”

The archer nodded and stood up, offering his hand to Amelie but the ballerina refused.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay here,” Amelie asked, “I’ll be alright,”

Hanzo and the doctor exchanged glances for a brief instant, but ultimately decided to listen to the woman and accept her request.

“I’m going to take a shower,” the former heir told her, moving away from the bench, “I’ll meet you here when I’m done, with breakfast for two, maybe?”

“I would love that,”

Angela and the archer left the library in silence but still waiting by the piano, the ballerina’s fingers were unable to summon the melodies for her broken dance to shine again.

.

.

.

**III – The edge of you**

While Shimada Castle swims in a sea of contradiction and despair once again, the cowboy wanders the place alone, enticed by the light as it travels across the space, as if shying away from his presence. He follows the purple neon stream past the kitchen, and well into the library – the most evident truth becomes almost palpable in his mind: why wouldn’t she be visiting the place where it all started? It’s only been minutes since the sniper disappeared, yet her light seems to float relentlessly towards the place where the woman was last seen.

Only a fool would believe it’s a coincidence. And he’s way too many things, always has been – but he has never been a fool.

He looks around the room as if expecting to find somebody other than her. Somebody there, real and tangible, unlike her. But the space around knows no shadows – the piano stands unperturbed, its melodies muted in the screams running around each corridor. The Spider is gone. The Spider is on the loose – and fear creeps up, makes them run and yell and curse and regret. The question lingers in the space between his body and her absence: what are they going to do with the Spider once they catch her? What do people do to Spiders? Do they just stomp on it and sweep the floor right after, so no traces of its existence can find them? Do they stand petrified in front of such a small insect, unable to crush it, lingering helplessly in the depths of useless desperation?

“Just how often do they send you to monitor her every move?” he asks because, no matter how hard she tries to make him feel as if he’s completely on his own, he knows she’s right there. “Or are you more like a referee, keeping an eye on both teams, making sure no-one steps into enemy territory?”

Nothing. But he’s used to it.

“She’s gone.” In case she hasn’t heard, he doesn’t mind breaking it down for her, “Hanzo left her here, went to shower… when he came back, she was gone. Gone, gone. We searched everywhere. She’s not here.”

He turns around as if trying to guess where her eyes are but she’s nowhere to be found. He doesn’t mind. He’s been here before.

“She took a photograph with her, a picture of the woman Hanzo would have married if, you know…” she knows “so we are pretty sure she’s going after this woman but none of us know where she lives so,” his hands at the sides of his waist, the showman produces his magic but still, the woman refuses to shine her light on him, “I got a name, though: Misaki… but I take it you don’t know where she lives, do you?”

Still nothing.

“Because, you know, she left without a note, without even saying goodbye, but although we’re not exactly sure whether she’s planning to come back here or not, we’re pretty damn sure she’s after this Misaki lady,” he takes off his hat, artificial fingers running through his hair, “the thing is, darlin’ – if _we_ don’t know where Misaki lives, finding her it’s definitely gonna take quite a while for Amelie. At least it should. But since you’re here, I’m just gonna assume you didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance and you’re willing to help me now, right?” His voice trails off as her shadowy figure appears right before his eyes. She’s sitting by the piano, fingers resting on the notes she won’t produce.

Then her eyes strike him, certain as the thunder that always follows lighting, and he remembers his own fault. He’s betrayed her, or at least he thinks he has.

He looks down for a moment, wondering if, maybe, she already knows. They haven’t talked since he left the hotel. He tries to go on, but he can’t find the strength to ask for more.

“Morrison and Shimada are on their way,” Sombra whispers, “they found Misaki’s address written on a napkin. Very convenient.”

“So, you knew?”

She nods, but the typical scornful smile that usually tugs at the corners of her mouth is nowhere to be found.

“I was checking up on her, saw the entire scene between Amelie and Hanzo. Poor woman, she looked so desperate – I gave her the address, it only took me a couple seconds to find this Misaki woman, but when I realized I wasn’t actually helping Amelie, I knew I had to at the very least try to make things up for her – that’s why I gave them the address,”

“Did she see you?” he’s concerned about her, and he doesn’t try to hide it, “Did anyone see you?”

The hacker shakes her head and cups his hands with hers. It’s the first time he sees traces of sadness in her, and the sight is unsettling. Maybe she’s feeling guilty. Perhaps they want her to monitor the crooked sniper, but she’s not allowed to intervene and today she has crossed the line. Maybe it’s fear. Perhaps, insecurity. There’s a whole other Olivia he still has to know – the one that cares, the one that struggles, the one that strives in the dark, changing people’s lives without being noticed. The thought is frightening. The thought looks a lot like him.

“So, you two are like friends or somethin’?”

Another small “no” takes over her features.

“Widowmaker had no friends, Jesse,”

“And what about Sombra?” he asks, “Does Sombra have any friends?”

“She has friends in high places,” there it is, the smile, the hiding place that has sheltered her in so many occasions, “but that roughly translates to an actual semblance of real friendship. I have always pitied her,” the smile fades and sadness returns, it sets on her lips, tattoos her eyes with sorrow, “we all had the chance to choose who we wanted to become: the good ones and the bad ones alike. When things happened, we all had the chance to sit down and think who we were going to be. She’s the only one of us who didn’t get that chance,”

He wants to kiss her. Taste her again. Even if it’s for the last time.

“Widowmaker will return, Jesse,” she says, pausing his intentions, “but only because she never really went away. I don’t know what your girlfriend did to her, or what she thought she did to her but you read the file yourself, Jesse: Widowmaker will always be there, in the back of her mind, driving her. That’s why she can’t make it work with Hanzo, she tries and tries but there’s always something holding her back,” the pause is long and deep, she can’t afford to look him in the eye, “I thought it was weird, you know? That they didn’t seem interested in getting their sniper back… with just a little research, the file was in my hands. I took it home with me that day, but they didn’t notice. In fact, they still haven’t realized the file is gone from their archives, do you know why, Jesse?”

He shakes his head.

“Because something tells me they’re no longer interested in the past,” she’s certain, “if Amelie hadn’t killed the doctor they would have killed him with their own hands anyway. After his death, they got an entire decade to  _improve_  his work, Dr. Beuhs’ techniques are child’s play now,” as the light fades from her eyes, the cowboy does not seem to understand the darkness encompassing the small space between them, “I would often spy on her, while she was still in Gibraltar. That’s when I noticed there was something between Amelie and Hanzo – the Shimada Clan was still an item in Talon’s to-do list, and she was with him now, the heir had set his eyes on the Spider…”

There’s a purple luminescence emanating from her fingertips, lines turn into patterns until the shape is fully formed - a screen he has seen before, resting peacefully in the palm of her hand. She shows him a fragment of their time together: a concerned Amelie, trying to find solace in the arms of the restless archer.

“Do you ever ask yourself why Gerard and Mondatta are the only ones who haven’t come back from the grave?” she asks, “Because _she_ murdered them, Jesse. Because she is _that_ good.” He interrupts her perfidy with a desperate kiss, only to end up tasting his own frustration.

“Talon knows everything that goes around here,” he whispers, “every little thing, every detail… Talon has been listening to everything we say,”

“ _I_  have been listening,” Sombra, ever impertinent, corrects him and anticipates the fury in his eyes, “not Talon,” her hands, all over him, know exactly where to go, “I know the word betrayal has been used a lot, all over the years, until it lost all meaning – but let’s not get used to an empty sound. Jesse, let’s go. You did what you had to do, you showed them the file but that’s all, there’s no winning this thing, there’s no getting the upper hand in this conflict. Let’s just leave,”

He stands up, looking confused. The touch of her hands still burns against his skin.

“Why did you give me the file?” The man mumbles, “What were you thinking? That I would give up on these people knowing they’re in danger? That I would be too scared to come back?”

She looks down, at her own hands, then tries to find the vehemence in his eyes but it’s clear confusion is getting the best of him. She made him play a game and now he had been defeated.

“Proximity,” she finally says, “because you care about these people, Jesse. And I knew if you were to find out about Amelie… if you… the second you found out I had this information…” it’s hard for her to go on – it’s been ages, or lifetimes since she has tried to be this honest, “you would have never forgiven me.”

There it is: exposed and bare, she exists in between these small gaps of sincerity. But then the question mark always lingers nearby, like a magnetic presence that cannot be detached from her. There it is, finally, and ironically enough, it happens when she chooses honesty. But he cannot deny this – he just doesn’t know what is real whenever she’s around. The edges of her truths are always sharp and slim.

“You did it for yourself,” he whispers, “you did it because you wanted to be forgiven – it was you, you told them there was something between Amelie and Hanzo, didn’t you?”

“There is nothing between them, Jesse, it’s not real,” she yells and, for a moment, doesn’t care about the world, “I was only doing my job – I didn’t do it for fun, I didn’t do it to have a good time; this is what I do, Jesse, and you know it,”

The man walks up to her, his hands are on her shoulders, pulling her close,

“Why did you help me, Sombra?” he insists, and she knows he’s not bluffing, “why did you give me the file?”

She slaps his face, regrets it almost immediately. Yet her mouth has yet to taste regret.

“I gave you the file so you could see that while you were too busy playing boyfriend and girlfriend, there was some serious shit going on all around you, Joel. I gave you the file for you to open your eyes and leave – I gave you the file for you to man up and make the decision yourself,” her tongue is vicious, but he already knows what her mouth is capable of, “you don’t wanna be here anymore, do you? You don’t want to play boyfriend and girlfriend anymore, do you? So I thought  _maybe he’ll grow a pair after reading this_  but no, here you are, why are you still here, Joel?”

That’s not his name.

“For them, right?” she goes on, “they take you for granted all the time – they don’t listen to you, they don’t respect you – whatever you had, it’s over. And still, you stay, Joel…”

That’s not his name.

“You’re such a fool,” she caresses his face, her eyes are filled with tears, “you’re such a fool, Joel, you’re such a fool…”

That’s not his name.

“They know it was you,” he says, and her eyes burn in agonizing pain, “they know you gave me the file,”

_Christmas and a bar, and the light. He’s tobacco, and booze, and the stranger sitting by the bar – oh she knows. But he knows, too. He knows each scar on her body. The whitened ones, or the little ones that faded in time, long ago. Each line, each dot and each pattern that speaks about her misfortune. Her electric love, her colossally purple nerves. He knows her scars. He just does. He even knows about those ones she doesn’t want him to see or the ones that they never see, for their eyes are too busy inspecting the obvious: the color, the light, the spark – the ethereal sort of emptiness that devours her whole._

_Sitting by the bar, there’s a girl full of marks._

_Sitting by the bar, there’s a girl with no name._

_And even if Christmas lights glisten in the distance, the cowboy knows that not even death shall identify her._

_There were times when they said, “Hey, you look like a Linda,” but she wasn’t a Linda. Other times they said “No, you look like a Carol,” but in the end, she wasn’t a Carol either. Olivia is the name of the girl with no name. Still, she laughs for she knows, she’s almost certain of it: identity is but a cheap joke of the mind._

He has already said goodbye to the ninja, it won’t be long until the doctor becomes just another ghost in the rearview mirror of his life – but he’s not ready for this. He just wanted some time, and perhaps, some space. He just wanted the chance to think things through and dominate this new perspective: it was nice knowing that she was there, the thought of someone like that – someone like her - has always been comforting for him. In fact, he can’t understand why so many people find her presence so unnerving. She is and she is not, she exists in gaps of existence, like a sigh or a moan, or an image in an anonymous mirror.

He has always entertained the idea of her. The idea of a chance, a dialogue, a smile, a fire, a looking glass.

So now he believes that, perhaps, she has heard. Maybe she was listening, as usual. Maybe she knows he has opened up to Morrison. But her mouth quickly proves him wrong and her eyes lose all color – purple has never looked so dull.

“You told them?”

He doesn’t know if he should believe her or not. He just knows he wants to believe. But faith is not a rosary. Faith is not a church. Sombra shakes her head in silence and the man hesitates. He still doesn’t know how to believe in the things she says – but he knows he wants to believe, he knows faith is a pain.

Faith is a wound.

She fades from his sight.

“Why did you come?” he asks, brokenhearted, “why?”

Her voice is a memory.

“I guess old habits die hard – right, cowboy?”

.

.

.

**IV – Appetite**

Even for a woman who’s unable to experience any positive emotions, the face of the woman that should have married the man she calls her own is a challenge. And her transgression followed suit, as it helped her stand before Misaki’s door with nothing but a handful of mixed up thoughts and half-baked conclusions and a pitiful collection of hypothesis that were not enough to help her achieve any conclusions. She knocked and waited until the other woman made the terrible mistake of opening her door and letting the stranger into her house.

Japanese hospitality at its best, the former heartless killer introduced herself. She had come in behalf of one Hanzo Shimada, a name Misaki had not dared to forget – and her face showed, as all those feelings that Amelie could not feel began to appear across the surface, possessing Misaki’s features one by one.

At first, it was purely surprising. But then surprise turned into curiosity, and it quickly escalated, turning into a dear memory, perhaps a warm souvenir torn from the pages of the past. But then a foreign sense of peace traveled through Misaki’s muscles, expressing nothing but a timid joy, mixed with what seemed to be a simple sort of tranquility.

“I must admit,” the young woman confessed, “it’s good to know he’s still around,”

Right. Genji, the clan, the life of a clandestine mercenary. The man she had grown to love was not the one in Misaki’s memories and, paradoxically enough, the woman in Hanzo’s memories had little to do with the Misaki that had stood the test of time.

Misaki helped her out of the unsettling trance by offering her a cup of green tea. She had already let the beautiful stranger step into her house, and the former Heir of the Shimada Clan had resurfaced in her mind. The thought was unavoidable: what could have been, how different her life would have been if only Hanzo had stayed with the clan. But then she remembered – the symptoms of the doctrine, shaping up his misfortune and his unhappiness, the tales of a dead brother and the songs of betrayal and abandonment, forever detaching the Hanzo she had met from the man that had emerged from the chaos, the outcome of their poison, and the rotten result of their philosophy.

Hands moving, Amelie crossed and uncrossed her legs a thousand times in less than ten minutes. She fidgeted in the chair as she played with her hair, with her clothes, with the tight line ending at the corners of her mouth. Hanzo had said it himself: he had never loved that woman, yet the attachment was real – she could sense the bond in Misaki’s dark eyes. It all seemed evident now, the beauty that Hanzo had failed to see then was painfully obvious for Amelie now. Even if Hanzo had always stared at a little child and Amelie was now staring at a woman, the lines in her face seemed to have traveled from the photograph to her delicate visage with nothing but delicacy and sensitivity and Amelie was caught in between the impressions of a girl she had not met and this perfectly beautiful woman.

“You were Hanzo’s fiancée, back in the day?” Amelie began, timidly, “Is that right?”

Misaki nodded her head, smiling tenderly at the memory.

“I was,” she tugged her hair behind her ears, “but how is Hanzo? Is he back for good, is he going to stay in Japan?”

“He and his brother have reclaimed Shimada Castle,” Amelie informed her, “I don’t know if Genji’s planning to stay, but Hanzo doesn’t want to leave his home,”

Misaki’s wide-eyed gaze gave her away,

“Genji?” she asked, “I thought he was dead – they said Hanzo had,”

Amelie interrupted her, shaking her head, dismissing Misaki’s assumptions.

“It’s a long story,” she said, “but Genji is alive. Hanzo attacked him, he left him for dead, that much is true. But Genji survived, and he has forgiven his brother,”

 Both her hands were hovering over her heart, a small nod, a timid grin,

“I’m glad to hear that,” Misaki said, “Hanzo will always have a special place in my heart,”

_She stands up and smashes her cup against the table, the broken pieces fall all around Misaki but the Japanese woman doesn’t have enough time to react. Maybe it’s because she made the terrible mistake of letting a complete stranger into her house. Or maybe the mistake was to show sympathy for the former heir – maybe she chose her words wrong, “Hanzo will always have a special place in my heart,”_

_The assassin has trapped her. Amelie has her pinned against the wall and the broken ceramics are getting dangerously close to her neck. Her own hospitality is about to murder her. Her hands, light claws, try to grasp the last attempt at freedom but the woman is relentless – until Misaki’s blood paints her hands, and Misaki’s legs stop moving around._

“Really?” Amelie said, “why? I mean, when he left, and the contract between families ceased to exist, your parents must have lost everything,”

“When Hanzo took off, it cost my father a fortune,” the woman remembered, “but I could never resent him for leaving. Quite the opposite. When he left, he made me realize I could be free too – think about it, if the Scion could leave, I could leave too. The elders came to our house and explained the situation to my father, they said there wouldn’t be any money for us. I remember my mother broke down and cried that day – that was the only time I saw that woman cry,”

Amelie reached out for the young Japanese woman and touched her shoulder ever so slightly – she could not feel any sort of empathy for her but still, she was thankful Misaki was taking the time to let her inside a past she had not lived.

“When I discovered my mother was crying because the contract was terminated… and not because Hanzo had been forced to leave his house, or because Genji was dead, or because my future was crumbling down all around me, I finally realized they had sold me to the clan,” Misaki explained, “That’s when I realized that Hanzo had never loved me – I was just an obligation for him. And he was so young too… Still, I would have liked the chance to say goodbye, you know?”

“What do you mean?” Amelie asked, and Misaki shrugged her shoulders.

“Well, with Hanzo gone, and now that I was finally able to see my parents as they truly were, it didn’t take long for me to run away from home,” she explained, “at first I hated him, thinking he would have made my life so much easier – but then things turned out just fine for me. I got a job, finished my studies, met a boy, married him and gave him a son,” she stood up and showed Amelie the family photograph –

That could have been his son.

_But he doesn’t like children._

“Then we got a divorce… and now we’re back together again,” Misaki went on, “but still, I wouldn’t have any of these things, any of these memories if Hanzo had stayed. I would have been a trophy wife, or maybe even less than that,”

Misaki’s mouth kept moving, but Amelie could not hear the words coming out of her lips. The woman had a life: she had a husband, a son… she had not waited for Hanzo to return.

_How dare you? Don’t you know he’s still living in the past?_

_You were supposed to help me, Misaki. You and your gorgeous twenty-seven years of age were supposed to replace me. I can’t love him, I will try to kill him – but you… it was your job to wait for him, it was the only thing you were supposed to do. But no, now you’re married, now you have a son, he doesn’t even like children, Misaki._

_How dare you? How could you do this to me? Can’t you see I need you? I need you to go back to Hanamura, I need you to captivate him with your beauty, I need him to fall for you, Misaki._

_You’re such an idiot, Misaki._

_She slaps her face, and blood contaminates her hand as it travels through her fingers, tattooing patterns of madness across her skin. From the corners of her mouth, Misaki watches as the end unravels: this time, the assassin buries the teaspoon in the younger woman’s left eye and Misaki’s visions turn black. She can feel those hands, pressing down her throat. She can feel her own screams, chocking in her own blood. Until her legs stop moving, and the taste of her blood does not seem to bother her anymore. The black world turns a shade darker, and her loved ones become lighthouses in the distance, burning incandescence, brimstone in the hour of goodbyes._

“I thought you could see him,” Amelie whispered, “I thought you could visit Shimada Castle,”

A soft laugh escaped Misaki’s lips,

“I would love to see him,” she admits, “I would love to show him my family, I’d love to thank him for the freedom he gave me without even knowing… and I’d love to give Genji a hug, I’d love to see them again…”

_What for?_

_There’s nothing you can do to help us out, Misaki._

“… If that’s okay with you,”

The end of Misaki’s sentence caught her by surprise.

“What do you mean?”

The younger woman smiled at her, “well, you said you and Hanzo are friends, but I’m pretty sure you’re so much more than that,”

_What makes you think that? Is it so obvious?_

“You look like the kind of woman the Scion would have chosen for himself, if only he had had the freedom to choose in the first place,”

_The Scion would have chosen Widowmaker. Hanzo has chosen Amelie. They’re not the same person, Misaki._

“You’re beautiful, and refined, sophisticated,” she said, “Elegant and classy, well-educated and kind… you’re definitely his type,”

“I tried to kill him,” Amelie confessed, trying to free herself from the sugar-coated words exiting Misaki’s mouth, still the woman shrugged her shoulders innocently, leaning closer.

“Who hasn’t?”

There was a short-lived laugh that filled the room with a warm echo. A simple smile adorning Misaki’s lips. Yet, imperturbable in her stoicism, Amelie waited.

“I never loved him,” Misaki confessed, “I was too young to know what real love was. But I admired him, respected him, and even feared him – still, I’m glad he could find the strength to go on after everything he’s been through. I’m glad he’s back, I’m glad he’s found someone,”

“You’re so nice, Misaki,” the interruption came unannounced, in the shape of a soft-spoken compliment, but the lifeless tone of her voice, the colorless expressions in her eyes knew no peace, “but you never loved him,”

_Dull, Misaki. You’re pretty dull. And I’m so jealous of you. Don’t take this the wrong way, no, it’s not like I can see you with him in my mind, no. You see, you lost everything, just like I did. But you were able to reinvent yourself. Look at you, you’re happy, you have a beautiful family… everything I have is a man that has to tie my hands together every night because there’s a high chance I’ll try to kill him in his sleep. You’re everything I’m not, and it’s so painful, Misaki. You found your way in life, exactly like he did._

_Can’t you see it, Misaki?_

_Even now, you’re still perfect for him._

“Any given moment can be the last possible moment.” Amelie said, looking down, “I could stop being myself and not even notice. Still, I want to love this man, Misaki. But I can’t. And you… you can, Misaki, but you just don’t want to. I would give up everything for an honest moment with him,”

It was not the cup, neither the teaspoon.

“You see the irony here, don’t you? Ever since you opened the door, I’ve been trying to picture the two of you together, in my head. But I can’t, Misaki, I just can’t. Still, even your imagination seems better than mine because you think I’m the perfect woman for him,”

It was the blue pen, resting carelessly by the phone.

Misaki’s legs stopped moving, and her blood quickly pooled around Amelie’s ankles as the assassin sank down to the ground, stabbing Misaki’s corpse over and over again. Jack’s hands reached for the woman, as they traveled through the mess of blood and tears. Hanzo stood by the door, unable to look away, unable to get any closer.

Morrison struggled until Amelie fell limply in his arms; her eyes, numb and clouded, were still trying to fight the heir’s cold indifference. She yelled at him as they moved out, she implored. She ordered him to kill her, to cut off her hands to keep her from harming any more people but when he saw the family photograph, swimming in Misaki’s blood, he understood the real extent of the nightmare. Misaki’s life had ended, but a child and a husband would have to go on without her.

For a moment, she could have sworn there were traces of fear inside Hanzo’s eyes, an element so alien, a thought so ridiculously out of place. Perhaps it was the image of that boy, the broken smiles that would no longer brighten up the days. That family could have been his family. That son, missing a mother, could have been his son.

And that woman, that lovely girl from his past, could have been the one.

Unable to stand the fear in his eyes, the woman looked away as her whole world began to burn under her skin. He grabbed her by the wrists and used his hair ribbon to tie her hands together, just like he had done the night before – only now, his fingers were cold and his touch was far from gentle. His tenderness was gone; gone with Misaki, perhaps, gone to that place where souls don’t come back from.

Like a thief in the night or a criminal that needs to flee the crime scene before the police arrive, Morrison rushed his way back to the car, cursing himself under his breath.

“Jack Morrison is dead, Soldier: 76 is a wanted vigilante and Overwatch doesn’t exist anymore,” Hanzo managed to say, noticing his friend’s unease.

A small nod of his head, a weak affirmation.

“I know,” Jack murmured, “also, finding the former heir to a yakuza empire right next to the body of the woman that should have been his wife was not gonna do you any favors, Hanzo,”

She tried to apologize, but no words escaped her lips. She had killed Misaki. She had ruined everything.

“Nevertheless, this is not what we do,” Jack sentenced, “This is not what  _I_  do. It’s just so unfair, Hanzo. There will be fingerprints all over that body, and it’ll be yet another one of Widowmaker’s senseless crimes… even if the woman who just murdered Misaki doesn’t have golden eyes or blue skin, even if she doesn’t feel any sort of satisfaction from taking a life,”

Looking at the blood covering his hands, the heir took a deep breath and whispered:

“The woman who killed Misaki has Widowmaker’s fingerprints, but she’s not Widowmaker. The problem is, she’s not Amelie either.”

.

.

.

* * *

 

**Part II**

_“Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire.”_

Jorge Luis Borges ― Labyrinths: Selected Stories and Other Writings

 

**V – “El sueño de un sol y de un mar, y una vida peligrosa”***

“Jesse,” her voice calls out for him and the cowboy turns around, “Genji told me,” it’s obvious she knows their love is on borrowed time and the cowboy scratches the back of his neck and lowers his head.

“I thought you were with Amelie,” he says, “I heard about what happened,”

She nods, and her hands become restless, playing with the hem of her shirt.

“Hanzo does not want me there,” she confesses, “in fact, he doesn’t want anybody there, not even Genji. Jack is worried, I am worried, Genji is devastated…” of course he is, Misaki was the last bastion of their past and now she’s gone. Like Sojiro and their mother. Like Meisa and the twins. Hanzo and Genji are the only survivors of their own past – and time has taken its toll on them.

She rests her arms on the railing, night falls down upon them and the cowboy braces himself, for he knows the end of the line is getting closer – he sees the final light, like stars scattered across the black sky.

“It’s hard to imagine my life without you,” she is brave, or at least she wants to make him think she is, “even when we were younger and you left, and I found Jack, you were always in my heart, Jesse. And you’ll always be,” Angela leans in closer, tries to inspect his broken smile but can only find traces of a broken heart and many, many contradictions, “even if you keep doing all the things you do, and you make me worry like crazy – because you know I will worry, right?”

Now he laughs, and the sound is pure. It hasn’t been that way in a very long time.

“Are you going to stay with us in Overwatch?” the doctor asks, even when she suspects he still doesn’t have an answer. He frowns, and, for a while, she understands it’s as good an answer as any, “Are you going to leave again?” she insists, trying hard not to relieve the feeling, “you’re a wanted man, Jesse,”

Now she worries, and she’ll never stop worrying about him. He’s taking the sound of his spurs away from her so others can hear the music of his cadence and she knows she shouldn’t be this selfish, knows he’s earned his freedom.

“As long as I know where to find you, I’m gonna be just fine, Angie,”

Lucky for her, he’s gentle as usual. Thoughtful as usual. Perfect as usual.

He’s going to break her heart all over again but she won’t feel the pain. He’s going to leave her with a smile on her face and a warm sensation in her heart. And that’s all she wants from him.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do, Angie,” he says, “I might go, I might stay, I don’t know. I need some time.” Her hands are around his neck, her lips are on his lips and she’s desperate: she needs that unmistakable scent of his to stay with her forever, tobacco and booze, with a hint of musk and wood and the quintessence of danger, the synthesis of an adorable evil.

She’s used to flying through the storm. She’s used to this rush.

“Is it somebody else?” the doctor breaks the kiss but her hands still refuse to let go from the rebel she still sees inside his eyes, “Have you found someone else, Jesse?”

He nods in silence, but still, she doesn’t let go. She understands. She wants to cry her eyes out because she knows she should have been there for him – she knows she can’t blame it all on Genji. She’s made mistakes too. All of them have. But unlike her feelings for the ninja, what she feels for this man cannot be explained with simple words. It does not respond to the vices of the mind nor the tricks of the heart. What she feels for him is. It just is.

_She was a virgin. He was not. Barely legal. Both were already working for the organization – she was the prodigy meant to save everyone, he was the misfit, abusing his talents and spilling blood like beer on a Saturday night. It took him months of dedication. Long nights that ended up in cold showers. But one day she came to him and said she had found an abandoned house a few blocks down the street, near the base, but still, hidden enough for the two of them to be alone._

_She felt ready, and she was ready. All those days and nights they had spent together, holding hands and kissing in the dark were simply not enough anymore. This is what he wanted, after all. He had been singing prayers to every god out there._

_But when the time came, he wasn’t ready. And he had everything. Experience, poise, charm._

_“Are you sure?” he asked, and then he asked again. And again. And again. He asked her so many times the question, eventually, lost all meaning. “Because, if you’re not sure, we can stop. In fact, we can do this some other time. I can wait. There’s no need to rush, I can understand if you’re not ready, it’s completely fine if you’re not ready,”_

_She knew everything about the body. Anatomy held no secrets for her. It was only natural she would show no signs of hesitation. He should have known. He should have guessed she would end up laughing at his doubts._

_“Are you sure you want to do this?” this time, she asked him._

_While she was studying hard to become the best doctor the world would ever see, he was riding along the viciously dangerous Deadlock Gang. And yes, she was beautiful, and yes, she was worth it – but still, it didn’t feel right. He loved her, but his love was not enough to eclipse what they truly were: a princess and a scumbag._

_“You are not meant for me,” he confessed, “I feel like… you know, as if by doing this I would be ruining you, branding you, even contaminating you.” They both got dressed and stared at the lonely hours of the afternoon as the sunset found them, sitting on the old couch. They didn’t do it that day. In fact, many more weeks passed him by until he finally felt ready._

_Still, throughout the years, the feeling endured. The princess and the scumbag. That’s all they’d ever be._

“It’s Sombra,” Jesse finally confesses, and the worry in her eyes becomes evident. Now she knows he won’t stay with them, “but I’m afraid I’ve already screwed things up between us, so I guess it’s gonna be a long shot. I told Jack she was the one who gave me the file – not only I betrayed her trust, I also put her in danger. I don’t think she’ll be safe from now on,”

“Please be careful,” she can’t help it. She’ll never stop worrying about him. He nods, and she understands there’s nothing she can do to help him, the only thing left for her to do is wait for the blood to come her way once more, so she can fix him again, like she always does. “What do you like about her?”

“We got plenty in common,” the cowboy says, “we both grew up in gangs, we both have talents that can be incredibly dangerous when abused by the wrong people…”

There’s a timid grin adorning her lips.

“I thought you liked opposites better,” she whispers, “I thought you enjoyed a little contrast,”

“I like what makes me feel good,” he says, and he makes it look so simple, “and this doesn’t feel good anymore, Angie. I’d like to blame this one on the ninja, you know? I wish I could say we were fine until he came along, but we both know that would be untrue,”

Her arms slide down his broad shoulders and her smile fades in the wind. Saying goodbye to that man is incredibly hard.

“You were my first love,” the doctor says.

“And you were mine,”

“You were my first,” she adds,

“And you were mine,”

“Liar,” she laughs.

He’s such a beautiful liar. And she’s going to miss all his beautiful lies.

“There’s a time for picking the rebel and the thrill that comes with them, I guess. And there’s a time for choosing the adult that can offer you some stability – but you are picking the rebel now, Jesse,”

He laughs timidly, knowing the full meaning of the words she has just said.

“I got myself a little ahead of schedule,” Jesse admits between laughs, “I had security and stability first. My mistake, lady: I had dessert before dinner,”

He turns around, rests his lower back on the railing and stares at her. Deeply, intently.

“I take it you’re not going to stay with the ninja,” he says and finally breaks eye contact,

“You know I’m not,” it’s true, he does, “but Genji and I were never too formal. If you don’t mind a little honesty, Jesse… we were sort of… trying to give you what you needed, the structure you lacked,”

His smile gives him away,

“It’s funny, Angie, I thought I was doin’ it for you two,” he whispers, “so you would not feel so all alone, Angie. So that Genji could feel the affection he had always lacked while growin’ up here,”

She shakes her head, so softly, as a timid smile finds her lips again. He knows the gesture like the back of his own hand, her kindness knows no limits. It was impossible not to fall for her.

“So, you forgave him?” he asks, and he doesn’t need to tell her who he’s talking about.

“I never said I did,” Angela says, “but I'm tired of playing pretty and dumb. He was right in front of me, Jesse, all this time... And I couldn't recognize him. I should have recognized him, but I didn’t.”

Classic Mercy: always reaching out, always eager to help, always ready to perform a miracle and save their lives.

“But what do you like about him?” he jokes, “Is it his voice? So deep and masculine,”

“Your voice is not all that bad,” the doctor plays along, “plus, you always mean what you say,”

“Most of the times…” he tips his hat at her, “he’s old, Angie. He’s like a hundred years old, are you sure everything’s still in… working condition?”

“Jesse,” she pats his shoulder, “first of all, we’re _all_ old, look at us, we’re pushing forty!” he nods in silent agreement, addressing the simple fact that her smile is still contagious, “and second… after your fourth consecutive beer, I’m sure you don’t want to talk about things being in… you know… working condition,”

He nods again, tilting his head to the side.

“Thank god we had Genji, then,”

The laughter stays for a while, lingering in the space between their mouths – until her lips rest in a gentle line, and the cowboy obeys, like he always does.

“I was too young for him back then, I’ll give you that much,” she reckons, “but now… now I think it’s time we did the things we really want to do,”

He agrees with her.

Wholeheartedly.

The last kiss has the typical taste of a farewell – but his scent gets in the mix, and nostalgia wins the battle.

“I have six replacements for your arm,” she informs him, still fighting back tears, “if you ever need them,”

“I see you still got some faith in me after all,” he jokes, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Keep ‘em,” he says, “I’ll always know where to find you.”

.

.

.

**VI – Fuji**

The archer grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into his room, leaving the task of having to explain everything that had happened to a still stunned Jack. Far from the judgment in their eyes, Hanzo walked her to his private bathroom and let the water run warm as it filled the bathtub. His fingers, far from the usual parsimony of a patient lover, undressed the shaken woman and helped her into the water – but his mouth was silent, his eyes lost in an unreachable distance. Every gesture tattooed on his face was an ode to the turmoil in his mind.

With gentle movements, his fingertips began to clean the blood from her skin, carefully not to startle her even more, subtly not to disturb her with his own stormy thoughts. Still, she stared at him with eyes that burned in incandescent confusion.

“Talk to me. Say something,” she whispered after a while, “anything.”

Hanzo lifted her chin with his index finger as his mouth betrayed him,

“To whom? The woman I fell in love with, or Talon’s heartless puppet?”

He looked away almost immediately, couldn’t stand the sight of her any more. Yet her hands grabbed onto his, forcing him to face the pain in her eyes.

“Han…”

His cold hands took her wrists and separated her body from his. Her term of endearment, far from reaching his heart, had somehow helped increase the distance in his eyes.

“Over a decade ago, they would have cut off your tongue for calling me that.”

“You’re not that man anymore, the elders no longer decide for you.” She said, with her forearms resting on the edge of the bathtub.

“I know.” Hanzo retorted. “I changed. There came a point when I just had to realize I could not be the yakuza man and the sorrowful penitent seeking redemption. There’s an incompatibility of roles there, can’t you see? I had to work for it, Amelie. I had to earn it.”

“You think I’m not trying?” Warm tears were filling her eyes with a sense of complete helplessness, “They fooled me too, Hanzo, I thought I was safe. But you think I haven’t tried to fight it? You think I enjoy knowing that a part of me longs to kill you?”

Anger burning in the back of his throat, the man and the beast were now the same element.

“It doesn’t look like you’re trying.”

A moment of complete silence followed, as the woman looked away, pained and feeling as if his mouth had just slapped her hard across the face. It took her a moment to gather her strength and move, another moment to collect her thoughts and finally find her voice.

“This is not my fault, and you know it.”

“Maybe,” the broken heir whispered, “but it’s getting harder not to notice the blood in your hands, Amelie.” He stood up, dried his hands with a towel and approached the bathroom door, “And every time you try to fight it and you fail, someone dies. I don’t know if I’ll be able to find forgiveness in my heart after what you did today – you can come after me as much as you want, you can try to kill me as many times as you wish if that makes you feel better, but Misaki was innocent, she had a family,”

“Then you knew,” she interrupted him, “you knew about her, about her life,”

He nodded, resting his back on the door for support.

“Yes, I did. But I never thought I needed to protect her.” Hands on the doorknob, the man looked over his shoulder only to catch a final glimpse of her small frame, still rocked by the warm water, “clearly, I was wrong.”

A desperate statement left her lips as she watched him leave,

“I know how to feel. I know how to love.”

He stopped but, this time, he did not turn around.

“The fact a child is missing his mother tonight makes it clear that you don’t.”

 

* * *

 

His steps led him across the hall and back into the mass of strangers waiting for him outside his door. But his movements were determined, and so the man advanced until the warm hours of the afternoon darkened, and the sky stretched its obsidian blanket of stars down upon them all. The shrine held no secrets for the man that casts no shadow – yet no gods could be heard in the night. His prayers, like empty songs, merely devoted themselves to nothing, ricocheting all around him in the dexterous hopelessness taking over him.

The monk saw him from afar, sitting with his hands together and his head hanging low. Gravitating softly towards the troubled man, Zenyatta spoke and reached out to him.

“Your brother led her back to her room,” the monk whispered, “he’s deeply sorry about what happened, Hanzo. He has told everyone he does not wish to be disturbed tonight but he also said that, in case you need to talk, his door is always open for you,”

The archer didn’t move from his position, but he nodded his head in silent acknowledgment. The yellow, warm light emanating from one of Zenyatta’s orbs caught his eye as it circled all around him. The comforting sensation, rapidly washed by his conflicting emotions, was not enough to lessen the pain.

“Perhaps…” Hanzo struggled to find his voice, “perhaps you could help her,” he said, but the monk sat down beside him, and shook his head.

“I’m in great pain as well, Hanzo,” Zenyatta said, “perhaps you cannot see it, because omnics cannot feel, perhaps your pain is greater than mine, and it eclipses my struggle – but every time she hurts someone, I remember the night my brother died. The feeling wasn’t there at the beginning: when she became one of us, I understood she was worthy of a second chance, I even welcomed the idea of the two of you together,” the omnic paused, and stared at the archer, “but when she hurt you, all these questions began to transpire and now they have stacked upon my shoulders,”

“Like a burden?”

The monk nodded once again, his contemplative expression glowing brightly in the tepid light.

“I have questions regarding the very meaning of identity,” Zenyatta told, “I can understand she was brainwashed and conditioned – but I wonder whose identity shall respond for all this. Now that she knows the truth about her own story, can we really say she’s not guilty of the things she does when she knows how her own mind operates? Can we blame her for not taking precautions? Can she take any precautions? Can we blame her for not trying to fight it? And more importantly, can she fight it?”

Hanzo could hear the monk’s questions echoing inside his head. Each one of them, taking root and devouring his sanity.

“I also wonder about the cost of our actions and the consequences that follow, or the consequences that should follow,” Zenyatta added, “Why Widowmaker has never had to face the consequences of her violent actions? Why is it that the memory of the woman she is no more is greater than the figure of the criminal that took her place after Talon’s despicable intervention? What made that woman greater than the criminal? The woman and the assassin are but two separate parts of the same life after all,” Hanzo stared at him, unable to answer any of the monk’s questions, “I wonder if Widowmaker is ever going to pay for her crimes. I wonder if she’ll pay for her crimes, now that we know what they’ve done to her, now that we know that the damage cannot be undone. I wonder if she’ll pay now because she’s getting worse. I wonder if it would be fair to make her pay for the crimes she committed while she was brainwashed – but then again, what’s the real difference between then and now?”  

Hanzo contemplated the elusive answer for a short while – the woman she had been, the one they had forced her to be, the one she was now, all faces of the same enchanting being, all blended together in the same prism, shining no light, drowning in countless mistakes.

“They have created a philosophy of chaos, but I’m afraid it’s a code I cannot fully crack,” Zenyatta went on, “but who gets to decide what wins this fight? Redemption or justice? Which one of us is clean enough to make that call? Who, in the first place, should make that call?” the confused monk stared at the archer, “The victims, perhaps?”

“They’re all gone,” Hanzo said, “they can’t decide,”

“You’re still here,” the monk corrected him, “and you’re one of her victims. But would it be fair? Making you choose between redemption and justice, knowing your judgment is clouded by your feelings?”

It was unfair. It was like asking him to do the impossible.

“I am still having a hard time trying to see myself as one of her victims,” Hanzo confessed, “not because it tarnishes my ego, not because it hurts my pride, it’s deeper than that – but I can’t control it, I can’t put my finger on it. Many of these questions are swimming in my head as well and the answers don’t come easy,” he looked down, “I cannot judge her, but I cannot forgive her either,”

The monk retrieved his orb and the archer’s strong features became nearly imperceptible in the darkened shrine. Still his voice, reclaiming its lost eloquence, began to shine its light on him.

“My indifference can’t help her, fighting her won’t ease her pain but bottling up all this anger I feel is certainly not going to help me either – and I got lots of anger dwelling inside of me: for me, for her, for Misaki, for her son and her husband. She doesn’t need my anger, but it feels as if I got nothing left to give,”

“It’s the natural order of things, isn’t it?” the monk wondered, “when we become unable to ask ourselves the questions that really matter, when we cannot face defeat, when we sense the goodbye but can’t tolerate the idea of it, we fight. We think it’ll be easier that way – we think it’s going to save us the pain, it’ll make us miss the misery of having to grow apart, we even think it’ll help us accept the fact that things are never going to be the same,”

Many years ago, he had chosen to fight his brother. Many years ago, he had thought it would ease his pain.

“Just like this woman has managed to create her own mechanism of pause and reset, you have managed to create the same thing for yourself as well,” the monk explained, “that’s why you fight her, Hanzo, not just because you know you can’t keep all the anger inside,”

“But I don’t know if this time I will able to forgive her,” the archer cried out.

“But you want to forgive her,” the monk placed his hand on the heir’s shoulder and squeezed, “you fight her because you no longer have the energy to fight yourself because even if you want to forgive her, something inside of you keeps telling you that you shouldn’t,” the monk retrieved his hand, and watched as the man lowered his head again, nearly defeated, “you want to help her, you want to have her near, you want to save her from their judgment, from the cold cage that is waiting for her back in Gibraltar… you’re not at war with her, Hanzo. You’re at war with yourself,”

The archer wiped the tears streaming down his cheeks, then he turned around, facing Zenyatta for the first time,

“But she’s in so much pain,” he lamented, “today she asked us to kill her, to cut off her hands… Widowmaker didn’t get to experience this sort of anguish but this Amelie does and it just breaks my heart,” he took a deep breath, bracing himself, “the vast majority of the bonds I ever had were far from healthy,”

“That doesn’t justify everything,” Zenyatta sentenced, “don’t think you don’t deserve a healthy relationship just because you never had one,”

“I know,” Hanzo admitted, “I’m well aware of that – it’s just… when I see her like this… I wish there was a way for her to become Widowmaker once again,” he breathed out, “that woman could not tell the difference between right and wrong, but at least she didn’t feel like shit all the time, she didn’t have to punish herself, she didn’t live in constant pain and suffering,”

“The world is better off without her,” the monk said, trying to talk some sense into him but the archer hid his face between his hands, and cried for the love he could not save.

“I know,” he said, “but I don’t think I can afford to think about the world right now. I’m a selfish man, always have been… but I feel her darkness spreading all around me and I’m scared for I’ve never lived in the light,” he stopped, the words in his throat felt like daggers piercing through his skin, “monsters belong together after all, don’t they?”

The yellow light surprised him with its incommensurable warmth as it danced around him. His eyes, sparkling in the heat, welcomed the momentary bliss.

“What is light without shadow? What is love without fear?” Zenyatta said, “in her case, these questions work backward: what is shadow without light? What is fear without love? She can feel, Hanzo. She cannot feel the love you want her to feel, but she can feel the fear of losing that love – that’s where you live: in the contrast. You need to find the contrast, Hanzo, and once you do, perhaps you’ll be able to re-educate her, so she can see it too,”

“If I could only focus on feeling positive emotions,” the former Scion whispered, “I could be the balance she lacks,”

But the monk shook his head, retrieving the orb.

“Then you would be as incomplete as she is,” the light had faded once again, suffocating the heir in a renewed abyss of darkness. Yet, in the monk’s facial plates, a chiaroscuro was reflecting the faint glow from a different orb, a purple one, dancing around the yellow, consuming it, becoming it. “What you have in your hands, Hanzo, is the woman in between,” Zenyatta said as both orbs gravitated towards Hanzo, “In one hand, we have Widowmaker, the cold and unfeeling woman that would have been a perfect companion for the yakuza leader who ended up killing his own brother; there you have your power couple: a sinful, corrupt man, with a woman that is unable to feel. In the other hand, you have the broken ones: the one you were when you left the clan and the one she is now that she can understand what’s happened to her, now that the monster has acquired a name.” The archer tried to touch the dancing lights but colors coalesced before his eyes, suppressing the originality of each hue, and finally becoming something new, “You’re already in the middle, you’ve already found balance even if you have yet to see it, Hanzo. Back then, you used her as a lighthouse in your path to redemption - now you have to be that guiding light for her,”

Fixing the unfixable seemed like such a pointless task.

“Is there redemption for a woman that cannot experience compassion?” Hanzo questioned.

“The fact that she cannot experience compassion doesn’t mean she _has_ to kill. She can find a different kind of satisfaction, she can create a whole new reward system for herself if she manages to reeducate her own mind.” The monk offered. “Even if the order is still there, a logical mind requires patience and training: she has to learn how to dominate the impulse. Widowmaker found satisfaction in her kills, this woman finds her satisfaction every time she is with you. She can’t lose sight of the most evident truth: even if there’s a voice in her mind commanding her to kill you, she must understand that ending your life is only going to magnify the pain she feels. She needs to reason with herself – if she can only feel the fear of losing you, she can’t afford to let you go,”

The questions remained in his head, clouding every answer.

“She has changed so much…”

“Has she?” Zenyatta stared back at Hanzo, “We’ve heard doctor Ziegler, there’s not much room for improvement and she’s been this way for over a decade now. If anything, I’m inclined to believe she has merely revealed her true self.  Your love has propelled that honesty.”

“That’s what my love does, apparently,” Hanzo retorted, “it kills my brother, and awakens the assassin in Amelie.”

“Do not use her as an excuse to punish yourself, Hanzo: you did not brainwash her. Quite the opposite, you made her feel loved, and she cannot feel. That is definitely something.” Breaking eye contact, the monk filled the space between them with the yellow light of his orb, “Love is not absolute. It’s always relative. I can’t feel love, but I can make empathic associations. If you think it over, the state she’s in does not differ greatly from that time of your life when you could only experience love as the result of a negative connotation,”

“A negative connotation?”

The monk nodded his head,

“Your definition of love was corrupted by Genji’s death,” Zenyatta explained, “but time is not a race, Hanzo. It is not a contest to see how many wrongs you can right. Time is the substance you have always lacked. Did you have any time to cry when your father died, or when your mother died, or when your brother died or when Amelie attacked you?” Hanzo shook his head, “Time is always the quintessence of our every decision – so whatever you decide, make sure you take the time to think things through,”

“I don’t think there’s much time left,”

“You were trained to please others. You were not just molded, not just indoctrinated by the clan,” Zenyatta said, “you were raised in the false belief that every time you were about to make a decision you could do it because you had the authority and the free will to do so but it was never like that. The clan was always expecting something from you, demanding something from you. Even when you killed your brother. And then, when Genji asked you to join Overwatch you decided to join not only because you wanted to be forgiven but also because your brother was expecting you to join. The first time you truly chose for yourself was when you left the clan, when you decided to leave everything behind and seek redemption in exile. This will be the second time you will get to choose for yourself,”

Downhearted, the former Scion placed his hands on his knees and took a deep breath before saying:

“I don’t think this choice is real. Jack won’t be able to take responsibility for this – there was a crime, someone has to pay. We can’t always think that he’s going to take care of everything: Overwatch doesn’t exist, he’s a dead man. He can’t hand her over the authorities, but he cannot let her stay in Gibraltar without jeopardizing the well-being of the agents there,” he paused, feeling overwhelmed by his own conclusions, “I’m trying to search for a way out, but I don’t like my chances. And the only thing still standing is that cage,”

Floating nearby, the monk placed both his hands on Hanzo’s shoulders, and the archer closed his eyes.

“One part will always love a little bit more than the other,” Zenyatta said, “one part will always end up sacrificing a little more than the other – that’s the nature of love, that’s the trick to balance the scales between two people, that’s how you tame the flame. But she can’t love, so you are the only one who shall be doing all the loving here. The only question that remains, then, is just how much more are you willing to sacrifice in the name of this feeling?”

When he opened his eyes, he was all alone. Still, he could see the warm yellow light as it danced around his shoulder.

“Master…”

 

* * *

 

Even if her room was located at the other side of the compound, the archer heard her door calling out his name again. And there he saw her, dancing alone, with no music to accompany her perfect moves – on the ground, drops of her blood were drawing a pattern as if she was trying to leave a trail of herself wherever she went. The many wounds and cuts from the previous night, all had reopened. And thin rivers of crimson now defined her ballet.

The ballerina stopped the second she saw him standing by the door. She put her hands together, her wrists ready for the archer to tie them for the night once more. But the man simply walked around her and sat on the bed, leaving her there, exposed and alone, in the center of the room.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out of it and the woman shivered in his silence. The thing she had adored so much from him was now punishing her for all her transgressions.

“At first I felt the need to meet her,” she said, “then I realized that, perhaps, she could take my place so you wouldn’t feel so all alone. Then I felt a jealousy I could not describe with words – but that’s not why I killed her. I killed her because I thought that maybe if you hated me, you’d be free from this curse,”

He didn’t want her reasons. He couldn’t handle them.

“I thought I was the only one in danger,” he finally said, letting his voice find her, “I understand this is not your fault, I do. But understanding is no longer enough, Amelie.” He got on his feet and stood before her – but he didn’t reach out to touch her, “Your blood, hotter than before, and nearly boiling in your veins, is struggling for a feeling but your muscles know no rest – these tears you cry should break my soul but, right now, those eyes of yours seem to be stained by a cruel sense of impurity that loves absolutely nothing at all. And that’s the problem: when you attacked me, when I found you today after you murdered Misaki, that impurity was there, it was evident and loud and obnoxiously real – but when we’re alone, just you and me, all I can see is this vulnerability breaking you,” only then he took one of her hands in his, “it’s hard to separate what’s real from what’s not,”

“I wish I could go back in time,” she said, “when I first came here, and you told me to leave. I wish I could go back and listen to you.”

“But then I kissed you,” Hanzo retorted, “a part of me wants to go back in time too, Amelie. To the night when my brother came to see me and asked me to help him capture the Widowmaker. I wish you were,”

“Don’t say it,” she stopped him, “I can’t hear that from you. Widowmaker was even farther away from love than I am,” she went on, noticing his struggle, “she was colder and more calculating – but she was also determined, and sure of herself. Now all I have is this constant fight inside my head – because I want to keep you for myself, and I want to keep you safe, but the voices know no rest. Before, my head was the safest place in the world. The coldest and most recondite place. Now it’s a labyrinth made of echoes I cannot understand, and I don’t know what to do,”

“At least, she wasn’t in pain,” he whispered as he sat back down on the bed, carrying her with him.

“We would have never met,” Amelie said, and the heir shook his head, and offered her a broken smile.

“I believe we would have – from rooftop to rooftop. I would have thought the color of your skin was as beautiful as the morning skies,”

“That sounds so sad,” she laughed, even if her eyes were filled with tears, “from rooftop to rooftop, from my blue to your blue… I would have thought that everything about you was just so captivatingly heartbreaking. Such a magnificent beast for such a small man and that loneliness in you, so profound… but the man is no longer lost,” she said, patting his chest with delicate hands, “he has found his way, and he now dominates the beast and not the other way around. And he’s no longer alone: he has a friend, a brother, a team… so perhaps my work here is done, Hanzo,”

“Don’t do that,” he said, leaning into her touch, “don’t say goodbye,”

“But it’s true,” Amelie whispered, “I remember you. You got mad at me the first time you saw me dancing because you wanted this to be real. You wanted me to remember you. You wanted me to know you had been waiting for me to open my eyes again. You showed me the dragon because you needed me to be careful. You danced to my music because you wanted to trust me; I do, Hanzo, I remember you,” he held her hands in his and looked down, “when you helped them back then, when they were trying to erase Widowmaker – the way I looked at you that day, the way I pleaded with my eyes… I knew I could trust you,”

He fought the need to kiss her until the last drop of his blood succumbed to the agonizing pain he was in.

She rested her head against his chest and he let her stay there for a while, surrounding her frame with his arms. But when she found his eyes and showed him her wrists for the man to tie them together with his hair ribbon, Hanzo shook his head in silence, kissed her lightly on the forehead and walked out of that room.

Wanting, alone, was no longer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * “El sueño de un sol y de un mar, y una vida peligrosa” (A dream about a sun and a sea, and a dangerous life” fragment of the song “Viernes 3 AM” (Friday 3 AM) by Serú Girán.


	15. White Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the nightmare begins.

Variations on a Theme

Act XV

**White Nights**

* * *

  _“Your hand is cold, mine burns like fire.”_

Fyodor Dostoyevsky ― White Nights

* * *

  **The first night**

His suit is expensive. It fits his body perfectly. It’s tailored, just like his whole life has been, and he’s cultured, he has been handmade for the occasion – years and years of oblivion could have never erased such class, such poise. He has never looked so handsome, and she looks equally beautiful tonight. The long dress she has chosen seems to embrace her shape and it makes her look so desirable. Dinner is delicious, the music is fantastic, and the conversation is entertaining and natural, flirty and sensual when it must but tender and mellow every time their eyes meet, and the sparkling lights undress the love that only one of them can feel.

The atmosphere is incomparable, they were born for this moment, born into the moment and they know – even when his mouth has yet to say the words – this is goodbye.

Dinner quickly becomes the conclusion for such a perfect day. And yes, she has destroyed his heart and yes, she has murdered Misaki but the night has been gentle and the man has finally made up his mind. He’s about to let her go – so he tries and succeeds and doesn’t care when Jack says he’s trying too hard. It took all of him to convince the old soldier that things would be alright – that he could handle tonight and the aftermath of this imminent defeat just by taking her out and giving her the perfect night.

The perfect memory.

She knows what he’s been doing for the past twenty-four hours: he has been crafting the nest of oblivion with tenderness and affection. He has given her a perfect day and only a perfect night could follow. But after that, once the respite is over, she knows she’s only going to find him in her memories – and so she draws the lines of his face inside her mind and shapes the contour of his mouth in her head with each new word that laces around his tongue. Then his entire body becomes a sketch she’ll color with a sepia she shall never forget – for she knows he’s doing the exact same thing: he’s tattooing every curve and every pore in her skin in the diary of his losses.

And there they’ll stay. Forever etched into each other’s memories, like parallel lines that won’t touch. Ever.

And the food is delicious, the music is captivating, and his suit is expensive. And her dress graces her figure. The flowers are delicate and the wine she has chosen seems to dance in their throats and the echo of their laughter remains long after their lips have embraced silence.

Tokyo is still afraid of him, or the man that he was, or perhaps the one he never really got to be, but every building in his city seems to be in love with her. And he knows he can’t blame them. He just can’t.

“Come on, let’s dance,” Hanzo suggests as he offers her his hand and the woman, for a fleeting instant, looks confused.

“You don’t dance,”

He laughs, she’s right. But he’s not going to let such a simple truth get in the way.

“I’ve always been attracted to nice things,” he confides, “ever since I can remember, and even if our lives were marked with tradition, I’ve always longed for it: an expensive suit, an elegant watch, a fine bottle of sake…”

“A beautiful woman?” she asks, and a smile begins to color her lips – there’s a replica of it all over his mouth, and he’s not afraid to let it show.

It’s a window.

While others may see this night as the door that leads to eternal sadness, he’s determined to see the moment as a window to a room he won’t be visiting again. The pain is there, and he knows it. There’s no point denying that, after tonight, a part of his soul will forever be missing. But right now, the night presents itself in a sea of blue velvet, and the stars align for the man to breathe a final breath of relief. He wants her, she’s there with him – for a moment, she hasn’t killed anybody, she hasn’t threatened his life and everything is perfect. Her perfume is in the air and it lingers on and even if he knows it won’t linger for eternity, he will try to capture that essence, for as long as he lives.

“No,” he shakes his head, “a beautiful woman is not a thing...”

Now she takes his hand and the dancefloor stretches itself before their eyes until there are no more frontiers left to put an end to this unexpected piece of heaven.

“But a dance… a dance with one of the greatest dancers ever, who also happens to be a beautiful woman – that’s something,” her hand is in his hand and her long legs are guiding him – he could get lost in those avenues. He couldn’t care less about the world outside that room.

“Oh, that’s right,” the ballerina acknowledges, “Amelie Lacroix was a great dancer,”

Her head is resting on his shoulder, her waist is not going to let him go. He sighs, inaudibly, and shakes his head even if the woman cannot tell the subtle movement is meant to breathe some life into their otherwise oneiric waltz.

“Amelie Lacroix _is_ a great dancer,”

She sighs as his words fade into her mouth and her breath caresses his neck. Her face is buried in his chest and their legs move like small waves in a peaceful ocean, trying to reach a shore that’s there no more.

Perhaps it’s because they are alone. Perhaps it’s because he has bought everyone in that restaurant and his previous life seems eager to help him reminisce what actual power feels like. Perhaps it’s because her body fits so perfectly in his arms. Perhaps it’s because he has never felt this way before.

Perhaps it’s because this is the last time.

“Aishiteru,”

The word caresses her neck, each syllable undresses a feeling that only he can feel. But as the confession leaves his mouth, the man finds solace in her silence. There’s no doubt she has heard it – but her reaction is slow, as her shoulders shift and her eyes find his.

“How do Japanese people say I love you, remember?” He says, “Aishiteru,”

There’s a light in his eyes she has never seen before. And there’s a warmth in her chest that seems to suffocate the coldness of her years. She feels a gratitude she cannot describe with words. She can barely speak.

It dawns on her. It makes her heart tremble.

This is it.

This is the end.

But outside of that world they have created, the weather seems to disagree with her. The snow has already begun to decorate the rooftops and the city walks in white – from her blue to his blue, the colorless symphony embraces his city and the wind sings songs of the most definitive silence.

“Hanzo,” she collects her thoughts, even if it is only his name what anchors her to the present, “who brings a ring to a break-up dinner?”

He laughs, his voice becomes part of her unexpected moment of complete amusement. He is enchanting. In another life, he could be the one that steals her heart away.

“Just this once,” he whispers, “don’t call my bluff,”

The woman nods, silently, and rests her head back on his shoulder. She understands. The music helps him find his broken rhythm once again and her hips gravitate near his in a soft waltz that captivates him. Perhaps he should dance more often.

But then he remembers: this is the last time. There’s no point in dancing if she’s not the one dancing with him.

“How could I?” She whispers in his ear, “When you have made such an effort in order to create a perfect memory?”

This is what this is. A memory in the making. History in the making. The end sequence to a tale that’s not going to end the way it should.

She can see right through him, and the thought is frightening.

“This day has been such a perfect day, Hanzo – I can understand you feel the need to create a perfect ending for it.” She says. “For this day, for me, for you – for us.”

He pulls her close. Surrounds her. Contains her. But her words, once more, are free to walk right through him.

“You chose the cage, didn’t you?”

His eyes, like monuments of the pain he carries inside, are already asking for her forgiveness. But the woman understands. The peaceful smile on her lips makes it clear she won’t even try to fight his decision.

“It’s alright, Hanzo. I understand,” she whispers, “if I were the one in your shoes, I would make the same decision,” her dignity overpowers him for a moment, but below the layers of comprehension and self-determination, he begins to see the cracks. There’s a sadness mirroring his own, a foreshadowed goodbye that’s keeping them there, floating towards each other.

“When?”

“Soon,” he says, “I don’t know how soon, though. I suppose it will be as soon as Jack tells me it’s okay for me to stay in Hanamura. Like I said, it’s not that I don’t want to be a part of the team, but I believe I can help them from here, from my place. And Hanamura is my place – it’s where I belong,” the archer pauses, “Jack told me he doesn’t want to leave me alone in Hanamura. He believes that, well, with everything that’s going on and… you, leaving, I’ll be vulnerable on my own - but the second he understands that I can be a part of the team even if I’m not in Gibraltar, when he understands I’ll be alright, you and the rest of the team will return to the Watchpoint.”

There’s a hidden confession in his words – she sees it, carefully laced it around his explanation. It breaks her heart all over again. But she understands.

He won’t be there when the door closes. Won’t be there to see her entering the cage. He won’t go with her, won’t walk her to her door, won’t kiss her goodbye. This is it. This is the end. Now she suddenly understands why he’s been trying so hard to create the perfect memory. Now she knows they won’t create any more memories. Not together.

There’s a pause in their rhythm. Music cannot contain them any longer.

“I can’t go with you,” he says, senses trying hard not to think about the soft touch of her hands on his shoulders. The woman nods. She understands. But her comprehension is breaking his heart and the tale-tell signs of his sorrow are beginning to show and every waiter must look the other way for they know who he is – they know who he was and fear reigns supreme in their minds. He is wearing the same clothes, he’s showing the same authority – they don’t know he has changed. Tokyo trembles every time he’s around. His city still shivers in his company.

He has changed, but his name hasn’t.

“Just one thing,” she asks, placing her hands at the sides of his waist, “if you ever need to go to Gibraltar, please don’t visit me,” her face is resting against his chest, and he can barely hear her now, still the woman goes on, “please,”

He nods in silence, acknowledging her grief as his own but there’s no point in dancing anymore. And the restaurant looks big and cold, exactly like the city that is still afraid of him. The music is somber, his elegance seems suddenly tacky, and her dress corrupts the very essence of her skin.

So they walk. Long after the day is over, with only fragments of the dream in their hands. And the rooftops are white, are the wind is cold and the end breathes fire inside his room but without their clothes, they can’t seem to recognize each other anymore and even if her hands are tied now, he knows that, by the time they go to sleep, it won’t be sensual.

And his bed is still broken.

Her dress and his suit quickly become memories as they begin to illustrate his bedroom floor. But the sense of urgency they have grown to love is nowhere to be found now. There’s only lethargy in their love and their movements are slow and their pleasure is nostalgic.

And her hands, together, are resting on his chest now and her head is on his pillow. Their silence covers their moans and their profanities: their silence has become a profanity. It chokes back their tears, it quietens their spirits, it laughs at all their music.

* * *

  **The second night**

_The cowboy takes off his clothes and steps into the bathroom. Hot water and steam surround him now, yet her face surprises him as she says hello in the mirror. Once again, he can’t see her, but those features of hers, trapped forever in the depths of the looking glass, are calling out to him. The word is unmistakable – her mouth is open and the phoneme escapes and shatters the entire room – run, she says, and his legs froze underwater: he has been waiting for this moment for so long he feels overpowered by it._

_They don’t see him as he runs through Hanamura. The towel is barely hanging from his waist, his eyes are desperately trying to find her._

_He knows she’s here. Knows she’s near. And his feet leave trails of water as he goes. Back in the dark and out in the light again. She lives there, he’s positive. She’s an eclipse – and he probably won’t stop until her glowing shadows make him run blind._

_And so the nightmare begins._

Down, on the ground, the Sparrow approaches the ballerina and finally feels ready to ask her the only question left in him. But perhaps the woman can see right through him, and she anticipates his words. Now that the cage is waiting for her, perhaps he won’t have to worry so much about his brother.

“Hey,”

Scratches the back of his head, trembles on the railing, hands shake in the windy, snowy night ahead. He can’t feel glad she’s almost gone. Quite the opposite. Her prison will also capture his brother.

Make it quick. Make it painless.

“So, you heard,” she says and the Sparrow nods. Then she nods. And silence is a tribute to awkwardness – so she breaks it. “Your brother decided I should go back to Gibraltar.”

His hands, in the air, are telling her that he knows, that she doesn’t need to go on. But she does.

“I’m sorry, Genji – for everything. You put your trust in me and I killed that girl, almost killed your brother… I let you down, if you feel betrayed by me I can understand. I think I marked your lives – but not in a positive way. Now Hanzo is broken, Jack is miserable…” when he takes off his mask the woman stops and admires his spirit. He’s standing still, eyes unable to forsake her.

He is an impenetrable fortress made of steel and flesh. A wonder. A curse. But his eyes are soft, and the woman knows he has accepted her apologies. Now there’s nothing left to say. Nothing left to prove. But his body moves near and those eyes of his, like longing harbors, are ready to look past her sins for a moment in an impossible past that still connects them.

_They walk hand in hand and, for a moment, he is no longer a yakuza boy. Life, the fake and empty pantomime of his days, suddenly feels intoxicatingly real._

“Can I ask you something?” he ventures and the woman nods again. “In 2065, you disappeared. But Project Lacroix took place in 2067. What happened in 2065?”

“What?” she’s surprised.

" _So, any celebrities you’ve danced with?” He asked, taking her hand in his._

_“Ballerinas are not celebrities,” she said, smiling tenderly at him. “Sure some names are bigger than others but… well, there was someone: Amelie Lacroix, she was very good… Though the real celebrity was her husband, Gerard Lacroix, an Overwatch agent.”_

_The young man shook his head in silence: Overwatch agents were indeed celebrities, the world treated them as such; there was no doubt about it._

_“What you mean ‘was’?” He asked, snaking his arms around her waist, “She retired?”_

_“She disappeared.”_

He remembers her hand in his, his green hair in the wind – the lights in those late Kyoto nights. But Amelie’s voice takes him back to his current self – the one trapped under metal, the one after _her_.

“When I met Gerard, I told him I was a ballerina but I was only trying to make a name for myself, dancing in studios and auditioning – he told me he knew someone, said that the daughter of a fellow Overwatch agent was part of a ballet company in Paris.”

He can hear his heart breaking in the middle of his chest. Sunday night. A religion.

“In the blink of an eye, I was dancing there too. It was good. I was happy – but then I noticed that new people were supposed to audition in order to get accepted, you know?” she shook her head, “and that’s when I realized that I was good, in fact, I could have been the greatest ballerina in the history of the world but they all knew Gerard was the real reason why I was there. They all knew my husband had pulled the strings in order to get me a spot in the company. And I couldn’t stand it – the way they would look at me, the humiliation…”

“What did you do?”

“I quit,” Amelie shrugged, “I… I didn’t exactly quit, I just stopped showing up.”  

_Just so you know – someone thought you were great. And you were missed. Somebody missed you._

He doesn’t say the words. He lets them rest for a while, in the back of his throat, as one by one they fall back to the pit of his stomach and there they stay, like broken parachutes that couldn’t offer a safe landing.

“That was the first and the last time we fought,” her voice is weaker now, the memory consumes her, “the most ironic thing about this whole story is that if I had stayed, I wouldn’t have gone to the other audition. But I had to prove myself back then – I needed to find validation. I wanted him to see me as a capable woman,” she pauses and laughs, her hair is sprinkled with immaculate white, “If I had managed to make peace with being perceived as a trophy wife, Talon wouldn’t have caught me,”

He disagrees. He has spent way too much time breathing between all those _what ifs_ …

“I think Talon had very specific plans for Gerard,” he says and looks down – he doesn’t want to go on, his brother’s soul is bleeding for this woman but her lips are not talking about him. Her lips are still talking about Gerard and Genji feels this rage spreading inside, this helplessness that suffocates the light in him.

But it’s his fault. He asked her. She just answered his question.

_Near the pagoda, the cowboy stops and looks over his shoulder – but he cannot find her. Inside his ears, her voice still compels him to run. But where?_

_What is he leaving behind?_

_Virgin snow covers his shoulders, and the wind carries a melody he has never heard before. The echoes bring back memories of a time long gone, a time when only the essence of each loss and each absence could truly speak to him. The shadows that emerge from the fading light, as the cold rain calls out his name, bring him to his knees. Was she really there? Was she ever real?_

_What is he running from?_

_All he has is the picture of a home that was never his, a truncated youth and a family that could never contain him; the image of a father figure, absorbed by a dark mist, corrupted by vengeance. And a woman with wings he lost to the fire. And another woman, the one that still screams to all his mirrors, the reflection of the same flame, the echo of all those voices._

“I don’t like the idea of the cage,” the Sparrow finally says, looking down, unable to stand her silence – “when I noticed that you and Hanzo were getting closer… when I saw you were together… I feared. I didn’t want him to end up like Gerard,” there’s a timid smile curling up his lips, suddenly infecting his voice, “I know he’s never going to let me take care of him, let alone protect him from an attack – but I can see him struggle with this idea, Amelie. Letting you go is affecting him in ways I never thought possible,”

 _Possible_ is the last word he says.

His silence will remain there, as he flies across the balcony and his arms struggle in the air. His legs fail him. The fall is loud. And the tiles beneath his body armor crack under the pressure as the wounded bird continues his descend, approaching the wet, glossy grass that welcomes him as he touches the ground. The hand that has sent him flying is now pressed hard against the ballerina’s neck and, for a moment, she welcomes this darkness as it claims her whole.

If this is the end, she certainly doesn’t mind.

Not anymore.  

_He sees the shadows pooling around every corner. Sees the shape becoming human._

_So he runs, until his legs can no longer support the rest of his body and he falls, naked and alone in the cold night._

_It’s the woman made of shadows the one that offers him a helping hand. And he takes it._

_He wants to blame her for his predicament, but his mouth cannot find the words. Words have always been hers and hers alone._

“What was that noise?” The archer asks, but the soldier doesn’t seem to care.

“There was a crime,” Morrison goes on inside Sojiro’s office, “Amelie is going back to Gibraltar, so who is gonna take responsibility for Misaki’s death? If we don’t do something about it, we’re as corrupt as Talon but if we come clean about what happened, if we let the world find out about us, it’s over.”

Hanzo approaches the window, but it’s only rain he sees. Not the broken wings of the Sparrow, not the lonesome cowboy facing his most personal storm.

“I told Ana about your decision, I thought I’d be able to explain everything once we arrived,” Jack sighs, “but Satya told them everything – Winston said we should get ready to leave this place, now I know what you said, Hanzo, I know you don’t want to come with us,”

The archer shakes his head.

“I know you don’t want to see her go,”

_Once inside his room, the cowboy puts some clothes on and sits on his bed. The fact that she’s here, the fact that she’s real is enough to make him tremble._

_But if she’s here, if she’s telling him to run – that means she’s not alone._

_And neither is he._

He recognizes the yellowish line as it fills him with warm affection. Once again, the winged doctor finds him and rescues him, the simple touch of her hands is already making him feel brand new. But when the sensation washes away slowly and acquires the face of everything he’s lost, reality knocks on his door once again and the Sparrow opens his eyes.

“Doomfist,” he says, and the doctor stands up of a sudden, “he’s here, we need to tell the others,”

They go their separate ways in the night, and the rain and the snow walk with them, interpreting their fears and their newfound solitude as they search for allies in estranged bonds, as they search for certainties in the darkness of the night.

The Sparrow is the one that tells Jack and the archer, and their legs run in complete desperation – but the sniper is nowhere to be found.

There’s no trace of Amelie.

It’s like she has never even existed.

It’s like she was only a fragment of his imagination, created only to palliate his loneliness and help him find his way.

_Mercy’s first choice is Zenyatta, but when the monk joins Morrison and the Shimada brothers, she faces the last door – the one no-one has knocked on yet. The cowboy welcomes her and, even though he’s alone, the cold shivers running down her spine are making her feel as if he’s not._

_And deep down, she knows she’s right._

Armed and determined, the archer steps into the night. But he doesn’t know where to go. He can’t understand why she has chosen to go with Akande – perhaps the cage, perhaps the end, perhaps this whole damn castle can’t contain her any more. His doctrine doesn’t have all the answers. The teachings that the elders had carved on his skin are not enough to illuminate him during the storm.

And the beast inside roars in paths of brimstone and vengeance, but he manages to breathe through the ash and the fire.

This time, the brother he has killed is the one that holds the key. Genji’s dystopic doctrine still has all the answers he’s been looking for.

“Hanzo, can’t you see what she’s trying to do?” the Sparrow yells, and the dragon listens, “I told you, brother: she’s exactly like me, she’s the victim of her story. I destroyed the clan as soon as I had the chance…”

She is not ready.

She won’t make it on her own.

The dragon remembers this fear. This desperation isn’t new. Still, it blinds him all the same.

The shadows move in the night, as the misty black that encompasses their fears surround them. It strives for a human form as it spirals towards madness. Fingers, like claws, will soon claim their blood and they won’t listen to their prayers.

Their poetic is not sentimental.

And their violence is certain. It has acquired an undeniable sense of accuracy.

The leader is the first to fall. And his blood validates the tears they had shed for him all those years ago. The darkness has spread all around them and now they can finally acknowledge its deadly presence in the shape of the friend that has become the villain, the synthesis of all their fears, the name they can’t afford to say out loud.

This inertia has trapped them in a suffocating limbo they can’t escape from. But once again, the doctor fights her way through the darkness and performs a miracle. She has just found him, she can’t lose this man again – and even if his first death was a lie, this time it feels too real and she knows this early pick is surely going to cost them. She knows she won’t be able to use her technology again anytime soon, but she can’t afford to let him go. She knows what it feels like. She’s already received the news about his tragic passing, she has already attended his funeral, she has already cried her heart out for him.

Not again.

But as the soldier breathes again for the first time, the shadow’s laughter makes her realize that the man she loves is living on borrowed time. A part of him will always belong to that darkness. A part of him is never going to come back from the grave.

Bullets rain all around them, confirming that Talon has indeed brought the machinery of pain and blood that shapes up their concepts. As their army advances in the night, the archer witnesses the fall of his father’s temple. Hanamura falls, Talon’s indignity has tattooed every wall and every stone in their wake with a brand new doctrine that strives for dominance and there he sees her, as the team retreats and runs for cover, the woman he loves, standing at the gates of his church, surrounded by them.

They possess her in the essence of the killer they created. But she’s not that woman anymore and their hands press hard around her shoulders, trying to summon the vicious, cold-blooded assassin that lives in the tales of a mad scientist.

Now the shadow moves towards the woman, and the shape of the villain becomes clear in his eyes. Akande, Moira, and Reaper are keeping her there, their scrutinizing eyes rejoice in the image of a Hanamura facing the very the edge of surrender while the ballerina tries to break free – the man she wants to love has worked so hard in order to clean his name, he has worked so hard to keep the ghosts and the sins away from his beloved Hanamura. Now Talon is trying to extinguish his fire, they’re trying to demolish his hope.

But he’s not ready to give up.

He knows what needs to be done.

So the man stands tall, and his feet march across the garden, seeking an answer. If Talon wants him to join their cause, if they truly want him to resurrect the lost empire, they won’t touch him. With a simple movement of his hand, Akande commands his agents and the bullets stop. Only the rain and the snow meet the troubled archer as he moves towards the door.

“Akande,” he yells, “here I am. If you want me to join, let her go,”

The woman falls to her knees as complete desperation takes over her bones: just how much more is that man willing to sacrifice in order to save a love she can’t genuinely feel? Inside the compound, the team walk around the bell, breaking their cover only to find out the archer as he gets closer and closer to that darkness – this time, it’s his own brother the one that calls out to him,

“Hanzo, for the first time in your life, you don’t have to be the villain,” the Sparrow pleads, “I know that’s what most people see in you, I know that after what happened between us you consider yourself one – but you don’t have to atone forever, you don’t have to cross that line,”

As the archer walks towards that door, his brother’s words become an echo that brushes gently against his ears. By becoming tonight’s hero, he will embrace a destiny of obscurity that will devour him completely. Jack sprints towards him, and grabs him by the shoulder, forcing his march to come to an unexpected halt. Clear, inside his eyes, Hanzo can see the fear clouding the leader’s sight: he doesn’t want to see another close friend being summoned by the darkness.

“You can’t go,” he commands, “we’ll fight them together. There’s gotta be another way,”

There’s a calm, quiet grin that adorns Hanzo’s lips as he places both his hands on Jack’s shoulders,

“You need them,” the archer tells his friend, probably the only one he’s ever had, “you can’t afford to quit this fight, Jack. The second you do, death will truly find you.”

“We can end this now,” Jack retorts, “we can get her back, Hanzo,”

But the archer shakes his head,

“We will get her back, that’s for sure,” he says, “but don’t try to convince me that you want to end Talon, old man – you need them to survive. The fact that you still have an enemy is the only thing that’s keeping you alive,”

He leaves his friend behind with the certainty that time will help the man heal the wounds that have brought him back from the grave. The ones he still carries close to his heart. The face of the original friend that crossed the line and joined the tenebrous army of shadows.

The exchange is quick and clean. As Hanzo joins Akande, Amelie meets this sour freedom he has just provided her with and the team quickly breaks formation, eager to find her again and take her to safety. But the man made of shadows has other plans in store for them – his hands surround her waist, and she travels within his dark mist until the face of utter horror he has to offer is only inches away from the soldier. The same shotgun that has claimed the man’s life only minutes ago is again trying to extinguish the light in him – no matter how many times the doctor can try to get him back, the relentless Reaper would always try to write the final line in Morrison’s tale.

The archer runs back to his friend and shelters him with his body. For a brief moment, the ballerina’s cold hands brush against his shoulder and their eyes meet in a prolonged goodbye. Reaper can’t afford to hurt Hanzo – they need him, they want him, he’s the sole reason why they’re here tonight: to rescue the empire from the ashes of oblivion. The shadow overcomes the man that still dwells inside and its somber laughter ricochets all around them – in this intricate chess game there’s no time for hot-blooded strategies, or so it seems.

“Hanzo, if you don’t come with us, the deal is over,” Akande says, “you want her to be free, you get over here,”

He looks over his shoulder and sees her, sheltered inside Morrison’s arms. He knows his friend will take care of her, knows his brother will protect her. Nodding his head in silence to the rest of the team, the archer begins to walk his final path. One step closer to the shadows, one step closer to the hell that awaits on the other side. 

He walks through the chaos and the rain. Walks through the snow and the cold. Until her voice calls out to him and he stops – this is not the way they were supposed to part, and he knows it. Retracing the short path, the archer looks into her eyes and lets his mouth find hers for one last kiss, “When I met you, you gave me hope: if you could find redemption, then perhaps I could find it too,” he says as tears stream down her face, “I thought I was helping myself by helping you, but truth is, right from the start I’ve been looking at things the wrong way, Amelie: you were never a conduit for me to redeem myself. You were my redemption.”

The feeling is warm. It reminds her of real love. Real necessity.

He walks again. This time, he knows, there’s nothing more to say. Nothing left to prove. Nothing left to try.

“Hanzo, are you certain this is what you want?”

The voice surprises him with its unprecedented calmness. He doesn’t have to look over his shoulder to know the monk is waiting for an answer.

He nods his head in silence.

“Hanzo, come back here,” the cowboy shouts, “the last thing the world needs is another Talon soldier,” but the archer doesn’t pay attention, he doesn’t stop. His peacemaker could put an end to this, he knows. Genji is surely going to hate him for it, but Talon is alive in the faces of so many long-lost friends and he can’t stand the idea of losing yet another one – why do they have to choose between the archer and the sniper? How could he be so blind to think Talon is going to accept this desperate deal he has to offer?

“Hanzo, come back here this instant,” he warns the archer, but the man does not stop.

So he takes a deep breath, aims, and finally takes a shot.

He was right, he had been right all along: _by the time Talon comes, we’ll be too busy facing each other’s demons._ He had said it. But they didn’t listen. They never do.

The archer’s march comes to a surreptitious end the second the unexpected bullet connects with his leg and the man curses under his breath, welcoming a sort of pain he had seldom felt in the past. His knee is a memory. And the second bullet finds his right shoulder in a matter of seconds. As he starts to fall, he begins to watch his entire world burn in slow motion. Jesse’s peacekeeper has roared in the night, and the retaliation follows suit, as the storm of bullets threatens the team once again.

On the ground, resting in a pool of his own blood, Hanzo hears their screams but he can’t seem to recognize any of their voices. There are faces, distorted by the commotion, he can’t place in the deranged corners of his emotional memory. In the agora of despair, a choir of angels receives his pain as a peace offering, for a man that is not allowed into heaven, this will have to do.

But as the angels get closer, one by one they all die in his visions. Until there’s only darkness ahead, and the agonizing cries he still remembers from his youth, tearing through time and oblivion with renewed tenacity.

_Hanzo don’t go. Hanzo come back._

_Hanzo don’t leave me here, all alone._

How many times has he looked the other way? How many times did he choose to leave when his younger brother was asking him to stay?

Duty. Discipline. Severity. Honor. Those are but words. Phonemes in the broken night.

He can barely see McCree across the garden, as he readies the final shot. He can’t afford to waste these final moments cursing the cowboy – not when there’s the woman he loves, sprinting towards him, not when his own brother keeps screaming, from the top of his lungs,

_Hanzo don’t go. Hanzo come back._

_Hanzo don’t leave me here, all alone._

There’s a smile on his lips, a quiet, peaceful demeanor that has nothing to do with the man they know. There’s so much he needs to tell his brother, so many different ways to apologize he won’t get to learn. He welcomes the final darkness, but there’s a fire in his heart and this brand new warmth surrounds him and possesses him. Death should not feel like this, death should not be pleasant.

But it’s warm.

It reminds him of breakfast in his childhood, his mother’s laugh, every game he played with his little brother, the way his father would always caress his hair when no-one was around to see, how he would often tell him that his hair looked exactly like his – and he would smile, briefly, becoming a father during small intervals of reciprocated affection.

It reminds him of everything before the nightmare. Everything before the doctrine had successfully settled in, everything before death and before that initial sex that had tried to change him forever. Everything before hurting the one he was supposed to protect.

He has heard, so many times, how people say they’re cold right before they die. But this is warm. This is sweet. This smells like cherry blossoms in the spring. This looks like his mother on the first day of summer.

Death should not feel like this. Death should not feel warm and welcoming.

And then he sees him, as the monk sits beside him and shares his light with him. This isn’t death – this is absolute tranquility, and his wounds fade before his stupefied eyes. His skin looks new, it feels brand new, still, he knows, this is not a second chance. He has a promise to keep.

But as Hanzo stands up, the cowboy aims for the final time. Enraged, the ninja manages to stop him, deflecting the bullet before it can reach his brother. But the whimsical trajectory quickly becomes an ode to irony and it wounds her in the stomach. The girl made of shadows, the one that refuses to have a name, falls limply in the cowboy’s arms and now, for the first time, she feels real.

Now he can finally see her.

Now he can finally feel her presence and her protection.

As Sombra dies in Jesse’s arms, Genji understands that things are never going to be the same between them. The final transgression has corrupted the little love that was struggling to survive. But as the shadows die, their affection stops breathing as well.

Once again, the angelic doctor illuminates the stormy skies as her light brings the hacker back to life – and Jesse can only stare at the first love of his life, completely awestruck by her determination. She has chosen to resurrect the enemy so that he can have his second chance in life – for a moment, he wonders if he’s ever going to stop loving that wonderful woman.

He knows he won’t.

Her love has defined the greatest part of his life. And as he smiles at her, he understands he has to let her go.

Zenyatta’s lights are blinding. As the archer walks towards the door, the monk walks alongside him, sharing his tranquility, making sure no-one is going to hurt the man that travels from light to darkness.

But when Hanzo reaches the door, and finally joins Talon, the monk’s lights fade in the night and the bullets find the omnic quickly, unsheltered and far from the rest of the team. The night brings in many sacrifices for those who seek to venture their paths – and so Zenyatta falls, cold and alone, unable to experience this pain but embracing the possibility of an unexpected end with impeccable disposition. He has helped so many, has traveled alongside many, has been graced by their struggles and their doubts, their lights and their incandescent hunger – he knows no fear in the path of goodbyes, knows no regrets in the night of wind and blood. But Morrison runs to his aid, and the doctor joins him quickly. She can’t perform another miracle – at least, not yet, so they have to try to keep the monk alive – and so they try their hardest, as Morrison curses under his breath because he knows they could have used Symmetra’s shields right now but there’s no time to think about that and Genji is still pleading for his brother to stay, and for the monk to hold on and everything seems to be falling apart, their hands are not enough to keep every piece in place and so they fall, as Talon directs the storm of bullets towards them once again and the team has to run for their lives, using every stone in their path to shelter themselves from the never-ending attack.

Jack falls, as a bullet pierces through his skin and damages his lung. And as they scream, they run and they struggle to survive, the ballerina sprints towards the fallen man, grabs him by his jacket and drags him back to safety, risking her life in the process, understanding they can’t afford to lose anyone else tonight. Hanzo’s absence is heavy and certain, it rains all over her and makes the woman believe in a faith she didn’t even know she possessed because he should be here, he should be here with her, with his dying friend, with his beloved brother.

But he is not.

Because he has chosen to sacrifice himself so that she could be free. And this freedom feels cold and distant, this freedom has been contaminated by blood and violence. And she knows he has a promise to keep – but at what cost?

As the doctor tries her best to keep both Jack and Zenyatta alive, the shadows laugh once more, and the bullets finally stop. Desperately, Genji runs for his brother but Doomfist sends him flying across the gardens once again.

“Don’t touch him,” Hanzo orders, and Akande looks over his shoulder and turns around ever so slowly:

“Very well,” he walks past the fallen ninja, and stands in front of the group – his hand circles around Amelie’s neck and Jesse and Sombra are not enough to help the ballerina. Until Amelie stops fighting and embraces the notion that, if she truly wants to save her friends, sacrifices must be made. She closes her eyes, embracing the familiar darkness, and her world fades to black. Carrying an unconscious Amelie in his arms, Akande joins the rest of his team and looks at Hanzo, “why choosing one, when I can have both of you?”

As Talon disappears, the broken Sparrow stands alone in the rain. The strength has forsaken his body, he can barely move – Zenyatta and Jack have been severely wounded, and Angela is trying her best to save them. Two people have died in front of his eyes tonight, the man he has loved has shot his own brother – and Hanzo and Amelie are gone.

Jesse and Sombra are also gone, now he realizes. And perhaps it’s better that way.

Alone, in the cold and snowy night, the Sparrow stares at the monument of their defeat as the rain disguises the tears that stream down his face.

* * *

  **Widowmaker’s story**

While Amelie is barely conscious of her surroundings, the archer quickly recognizes the place as Watchpoint: Tokyo comes back to life from the torn pages of his past. One of the buildings the Shimada Clan had avoided the most is now the nest where foxes dream about a chaotic world. Irony makes him smile as the man realizes that Talon has been operating here ever since they arrived in his native Japan: to pick the very building where the Overwatch flag used to fly so proudly in the past surely speaks about their twisted sense of poetry.

The geneticist is with them – a bunch of low-rank agents come to greet her the second they enter the room. Moira’s first choice is to isolate the ballerina in a small room inside her office, and Hanzo follows her, noticing how the agents eye him suspiciously but still let him move freely around the room. When Moira tells them to go, to leave her alone with the archer, they obey almost mechanically, and Hanzo remembers the same solemnity, the same authority that has painted his past and molded his every decision while growing up.

“This was not part of the deal,” he protests the second they’re alone, “let her go, and I’ll stay,”

Moira laughs for a while but the smile vanishes quickly from her lips.

“Deal? For a criminal, you’re quite naïve, Shimada,” she says, “you both will be staying here, and I’m afraid there’s not much you can do about it because, as you can see, she is right there,” she points at the little, rectangular glass window in Amelie’s door and the archer moves near, “the second you try to be the hero, she’s dead – and don’t get me wrong: we’re surely going to miss her skills, but if we managed to create one Widowmaker, we can create a new one. Plus, you’re quite deadly as well, Hanzo. Careful, you don’t want to become your lady’s number one competitor.”

Leaving Hanzo alone, Moira walks around her desk and sits down, hands surrounded by papers and files.

“I’m going to be honest with you, Shimada – this little love affair you two share has been thoroughly discussed around our table. But since Lacroix can’t actually feel, our leaders believe this romantic bond of yours to be quite harmless,” she leans in closer, and her voice becomes a whisper: “there is one thing, however, that they do consider problematic: the fact that she longs to kill you. Now that you’ve joined us, now that we’re about to provide you with the army a man like you has been born to lead, we can’t afford to lose you in such a ridiculous fashion,” she tilts her head to the side, and stares at the silent man, “a dead leader is far from useful, you know?”

“So?”

She laughs.

“So, I’ve been thinking: perhaps we should brainwash you too.”

The light from his eyes disappears as fear overcomes him. He can’t afford to lose himself in the process.

“Nevermind, Shimada. Turns out they didn’t like that idea,” she mocks him, “although they did like my second idea: a fresh start for the Widowmaker, a new beginning. I could wipe her mind clean, I can make her go back to ground zero and start anew,” she delays the words he longs to hear, rejoices in his desperation, “I can make the order go away, Hanzo,”

She feeds him hope and dreams. Feeds him with a sense of enthusiasm he barely remembers. But then her mouth takes it all away and he recognizes the hunger. He’s starving. He’s still starving.

“She won’t remember anything. Or anyone,” she smiles, “I’m sure a man like you will surely find the challenge quite appealing – to make her fall for you all over again? _For real_ this time? Just say the word, Hanzo.”

As he stands petrified, his mind begins to question if he could ever do such a thing to the woman he loves. Could he be cruel enough to destroy her entire world? Could he be cruel enough to erase Gerard for good?

“Have you read this thing?” Moira asks him as she shows him a copy of Beuhs’ file, “she asked for a story, Hanzo, we were merely trying to give her what she wanted: _the Widowmaker falls in love_ , and it was such a gorgeous tale, Hanzo. What she never said, however, was that she wanted a story with a happy ending,”

Do they deserve a happy ending?

Is there such a thing for people like them?

“I thought Doctor Beuhs’ report was in Hanamura,” he says, letting his mind wander in the confines of empty distractions as long as it keeps him from having to face the questions he can’t afford to answer.

“It’s a copy, the original one is still with Ziegler,” Moira informs him, “this is something we do quite often, you better get used to it, Hanzo: we let Sombra believe that she controls the information. We make her think she has some sort of leverage – but, in reality, she doesn’t. And it’s much easier to work like that, you see? If the puppeteer thinks they control the puppet, we can work and maneuver as much as we want to,” a new smile curls up the corners of her lips, “you Shimadas tend to ask a lot of questions – first your brother, now you. Seems it’s my destiny to work with your family,”

That Genji has little to do with this Hanzo – and she knows it.

“Anyway, if you read this, you must be aware that Thomas left out some parts of his procedure,” Moira goes on, and the smile disappears from her mouth, “he even changed some things here and there. Tricky bastard, I bet he didn’t want anyone to imitate his creation. A man’s mind is such a windy space, Hanzo, don’t you agree? What is ego, and what does it do to mankind, right?” she stands up, and leans her back on the desk as she crosses her arms over her chest, “the souvenirs I sent you must have proven that I have, indeed, surpassed Beuhs’ efforts.”

The twins, he remembers.

“I can do the same for the woman you love, Hanzo.” She offers, “she’d be deadly, fast, and her mind will operate on short-lived commands. The conditioning will make her permeable, even malleable. She’ll be brainwashed, I’ll give you that much, but the order will disappear. We could give her very specific commands and then, between one target and the other, she’d be yours with no restrictions. And while she won’t be able to feel, you have to admit the twins’ performance was quite convincing. The act can feel so real it becomes real, Hanzo. The act is as real as you want it to be,”

He turns around and goes back to her door.

“Why now?” he whispers, “you’ve waited for so long, why?”

“The pen.” She offers. “Tell me, Hanzo, do you like a good story? Do you enjoy reading a good book or watching a good film? The best stories are compelling, they have little details scattered here and there that help flesh out the characters. And characters have journeys to face, there are challenges that will test their limits – the character arc, have you ever heard about it?”

Confused by her simple words, he nods his head in silence and the geneticist grabs Beuhs’ report once again.

“Thomas and I did not see eye to eye, you know? But his poetic was fascinating, and some of his concepts were absolutely wonderful. He used to talk about assisted emotion, and I’ve always thought that it would be effective if I’m only looking at a particular scene,” she says, “but if I want to watch the entire movie, if I want to read the entire book from cover to cover, assisted emotion is not enough. I like to talk about an assisted narrative, Hanzo. With details and arcs, and a concatenation of scenes that can become a waterfall of moments – but one scene, just one scene, is never enough,” the way her long nails scratch the surface, as if trying to tear away each one of Beuhs’ words – “she wanted a story, and we gave her one. But as the main character, it was up to her to complete her arc. And she did – the second she buried the pen in that poor woman’s body.”

The file flies across the desk, and her hands are finally free. The words printed on that paper, however, remain trapped among the invisible lines that illustrate Talon’s macabre tale.

“You’ve been trained to kill, ever since you were a little boy. It comes naturally to you, Hanzo. I even think that, if necessary, you could kill me now using one of your hairpins,” Moira continues, “but in Lacroix’s case, it was different. It’s harder to acquire some skills when you’re an adult, most people know this for a fact. When Beuhs sensed her dangerous affection had mutated into a real threat he understood he needed to be on the lookout – so he told her he needed to go on a short trip, remember? And she cried, and yelled, and slapped the man in the face and then… do you remember what happened next?”

The man shakes his head – but he knows. He remembers.

“She grabbed his pen and tried to end her own life with it,” she whispers, “but she couldn’t do it. Years passed, the skill was honed, it was perfected. When she had the chance, she grabbed the pen and killed the woman with it. Back then she wasn’t ready to use such a simple object in order to find satisfaction – but now she is ready, and the pen becomes more than a mere object, it acquires a power that allows her to act. It’s not like when she killed Gerard – back then she was almost an amateur, without a skill, without her sniper rifle. But now she is able to recognize the weapon that lies in every single thing surrounding her. Now she can kill with a pen, or attack you with a stone – now she could kill with a hairpin, Hanzo, just like you. The urgency that your love provides is what enables the transition – and so the character finishes her arc, and finally emerges: now she doesn’t need tools, now she is the tool. Now she’s brand new.”

Years of indoctrination fall upon his shoulders. In every lesson learned, in every river of blood he has followed downstream across the streets. His city doesn’t love her – his city cries for her. His city sees what she’s become and trembles, as Tokyo recognizes his own shadow creeping up underneath her cold skin.

She has become his mirror. But he still can’t stand those eyes of hers, as they stare back at him and ask him why.

Why is the world getting colder?

Why is the rain still falling?

Moira opens the door and the archer follows her inside that little room where Amelie lies on the ground. As he gets on his knees, right in front of her, he understands that a pen is but a pen, that the rain is but water – that her love, as broken as it is, is but a feeling. The monk was right. A variation of a feeling is still a feeling. And this moment of silence is more than just a lack of words.

Long, slender fingers are laced around his hand and the archer is forced out of that room by a Machiavellian delicacy that seems to clash against his skin. The woman is staring at him and he knows, but he does not meet her gaze – her intentions precede her, her voice has the power to exterminate his hope with just one whisper – and there, at the other side of the door, the other woman waits. She’s not the one she thought she’d be but she’s not the one they remember either, and the former heir lowers his head as Moira’s unwelcomed touch makes it clear he’s not alone in that limbo. Her hands travel up his back and rest on his shoulders and her voice finally ignites a fire that has been dormant for far too long.

“You know she does not love you, right?” what she says, and how she says it: he cannot trespass the logic of such a crude statement. Stagnation overcomes him, as his muscles turn to stone and the image of the almighty dragon becomes a statue no one will remember, “She can’t – I’m sure she wants to, Hanzo, but she can’t,”

“She sacrificed herself so others could live,” he manages to say but her quiet laughter steals his words and the man finally turns around and stares at her.

“And you sacrificed yourself so she could be free, still, here you are, both of you,” Moira says as she walks around the heir only to rest her back against Amelie’s door. “and that’s noble, Hanzo – that’s one of the noblest things one can do for a loved one – I won’t discuss the limits of her affection with you, I don’t see the point in doing that, if anything, I’m impressed she got this far with a man that has been trained to systematically kill the slightest hint of an emotion the second it tries to reach the surface,”

She crosses her arms over her chest and deconstructs the image of a man so torn – for a moment, her mind wonders if he’s ever going to be alright again.

“The point is, Hanzo, now you’re one of us, just like she is,”

The man takes a step closer and rests his hands on the door. He can see the blue of her skin coming back to life – she’s lavender now but he knows, the frosty vision of the lover who cannot love won’t be enough to feed the dragon the fire it needs to survive. He remembers, he recalls his wish. He aches in the memory. He wants to bite his own tongue.

“Perhaps you should consider joining her, Shimada – if you feel like giving up, if you feel you can’t stand the idea of losing someone who has never loved you… you don’t have to suffer, Hanzo. You’ve already suffered enough,” the woman whispers, “you could be the brainwashed leader of a brainwashed army,” her fingernails dig, and his flesh is aware that the pain she procures for him has nothing to do with the actual definition of pain he has learnt the hard way, all those years ago.

“Moira,” Akande surprises her and the woman smiles gently, separating her body from the heir’s – “we wanted Hanzo Shimada to join because he is, precisely, Hanzo Shimada, a brainwashed nobody is not worth the trouble,” even if Moira’s smile reaches out and searches for a companion in his mouth, Akande knows she won’t take this interruption lightly, “Now Moira,” Doomfist steps into the light and extends his hand for the archer to take it, “if you’ll excuse us for a moment, this man has an empire to rule,”

“Any news on Sombra?” Moira asks. She’s still in control, and she lets Akande know the second he turns around and meets her unperturbed gaze. But he can only shake his head in response, “I can’t believe that fool chose to protect McCree,” she says, “the cowboy has never been the brightest coin in the fountain – but still… what I find intrinsically unsettling though, is Reyes leaving so suddenly,” she adds and Akande raises an eyebrow: she should not talk about these things in front of the team’s newest addition – not when his disposition still looks so fragile. “I know he said he wanted to search for Jesse and the hacker, but when Jesse fired his weapon against Hanzo and Genji reacted, I bet a part of his heart shattered during that moment. He should have known better… all these years, planning his revenge… and the second he sees these kids turning on each other it appears he can’t even remember his own name. He can get a little bit too sentimental from time to time,”

“Moira,” she knows what this new smile means, so she steps aside, and allows the heir to go with Akande to a much larger room – probably, a training room back in the day when Watchpoint: Tokyo was still operating.

He doesn’t have any time to collect his thoughts. There’s not a minute to spare. He won’t get to notice the most familiar aspects of a Japanese dojo, blending in with Overwatch’s undeniable architecture, mixing tradition with modernity. But he recognizes most of the faces that are waiting for him, hundreds of faces that are waiting for him to lead them once again.

Even if some of their names have traveled beyond the limits of his memory, he remembers those faces. Ghosts of a past that still haunts him. They stand before him in perfect formation – their empty eyes recognize him as their leader. They are the image of his ambition, they represent a time long gone, the man that the clan wanted him to be – they undress his every dream, they testify the one that died with Genji that night.

“Don’t worry, Hanzo,” Doomfist says as he grabs the heir by the shoulders, “no matter what Moira wants, we won’t be conditioning your mind. There’s no need to,” only then the heir dares to take a closer look: the army they want him to lead is a collection of brainwashed men – Moira’s superior method shines through the darkened room: they stand still, waiting for an order, like automatic machines that lack a conscience, like automatons without any willpower.

They exist without thoughts. They don’t move unless someone tells them to. They don’t speak unless someone asks them to. They could be simply put away after a mission in any given storage deposit – and Moira wants to transform Amelie into one of them.

“Do you want to know why you won’t be brainwashed?”

He can’t articulate an answer. He can’t move. He can barely breathe. But Akande grins, and the grip around the heir’s shoulders tightens:

“Because Amelie is here, and we know how much you care about her – but also because your brother is there, with Overwatch, and we know how hard it was for the two of you to patch things up. You are going to walk a very thin line that separates them: the second you trip and fall, they both die. It’s all up to you, Hanzo. Now I know, in the past, when your little brother’s life was in your hands you didn’t know how to take proper care of it – maybe now you do.”

The heir nods – but deep down he knows that Genji is strong. He knows his little brother is now capable of doing the most amazing things.

Genji doesn’t need his older brother to look after him anymore. Genji just needs a brother – like he always did.

The beast roars inside, in an electrical storm of blue that paints the rain and the snow with unprecedented vehemence. And the flesh in that man, the human vessel that contains the spirit, is not enough to hold back such fury. The mere sight of those brainwashed, former members of the Shimada clan is enough to make him want to throw up – the thought about Amelie joining their mindless crusade sends him over the edge and the dragons fly in all their splendid magnificence, breaking the night with a blue that shatters the illusion of a resurrected empire.

As the yakuza men fall, one by one, consumed by the storm, the crumbs of his family’s legacy are finally eradicated from this world. Only he and his brother will remain to testify that such a monstrosity has ever existed. Hanamura will now become a mausoleum for a lost cause – a cause that should have never seen the light of day. As his former comrades die, the light begins to illuminate the name that has always defined him.

He doesn’t realize yet, he can barely see through the mystical scales of the beast, but by doing this, he’s finishing his brother’s work.

Together, they have finally broken down the pillars of history. Together, they have finally found their freedom.

When the beast returns to him, a sense of complete tranquility possesses him whole. For a moment, he knows no regrets, knows no shadows. Only a sea of blood witnesses this instant of complete intimacy – all those bodies lying there, like obsolete souvenirs of a time defined by the man he never was, testify his rebirth. The hands that had taught him how to kill lie before his eyes, lifeless and dry, and their teachings resonate in the space around him – only now the voices laugh at the irony they themselves have created.

They don’t laugh at him anymore.

They never will.

But Doomfist is gone, and the archer soon realizes that so is Moira. Talon agents are scattered here and there, with the rest of the clan’s men. The woman he loves is standing by the door, petrified by the sight displayed right before her eyes.

This massacre contains his origins, but it also dictates his ending. And there, in the middle, is a man that has just separated himself from everything that has made him who he is. He has become both, legend and premonition, and now breathes in the gaps of time that shape up a present where his name is no longer the cross he has to bear.

Clear and certain, the beast reappears timidly and floats, ever so slowly, towards the woman. This fear in her eyes, this unspoken fascination – he has seen it before. But when the dragon reaches out and waltz in circles around her slender body, her legs betray her. This panic is brand new. This terror brings her to her knees, shatters her reasoning.

But the creature is gentle.

It does not seek her blood nor her agonizing screams. This storm is his and his alone, this wind is nothing but an extension of the man it represents. This blue, and her blue, are but the same color.

It surprises him – to find out that his storm can be this gentle, to learn that the beast is now so synchronized with his heart and his mind, enough to separate friends from foes, enough to protect the ones he holds dear.

He can’t see her through the blue mist, but as he approaches her and offers his hand, her absence wraps around him. She’s gone – her legs move, venturing an elusive sense of freedom where he is not allowed to join in. Out in the streets, back in the same snow, the archer runs after her, her silhouette is like a vision in the rainy night – she’s leaving him behind and he’s almost out of breath, almost brokenhearted by her unexpected departure. But even if she’s trying to avoid the cold cage that waits for her in Gibraltar, even if she’s trying to make sure she won’t try to hurt him again his feet still march in the night, relentless and determined.

It takes him some time to find her. She’s standing in the middle of the street, and his city still cries for her. The coldness of her skin impregnates every rooftop and every alley.

“Where are you going?” he asks, taking her hand in his, but the woman shakes her head, disoriented and confused.

“I don’t know,” she mumbles, “I don’t know my way around your city.”

He smiles,

“Shimada Castle is that way,” he points in the opposite direction. But she lowers her head. Something tells him that she has some other plans.

“Hanzo, where is the closest police station?”

The question confuses him for a moment.

“Why? We can’t really report any of this – you know Overwatch doesn’t exist,” he says, “well… technically it doesn’t. And with Moira and Doomfist gone… you heard them:  they don’t even know where Reaper is and Sombra is with,”

She shakes her head, and his words disappear.

“No, I don’t want to report any of the things that happened tonight.” She whispers, “I want to turn myself in,”

He lets go of her hand. And the world gets a bit colder than before.

“Jack said it himself, somebody has to pay – and my fingerprints are all over Misaki’s body. They believe Widowmaker killed Misaki, so I’m going to give them Widowmaker.”

“What are you talking about? That’s ridiculous,”

“No, it isn’t,” she sits on the sidewalk and he just looks at her, helplessly, “I think it’s time for Widowmaker to pay for all her crimes. For every single one of the lives she has taken -  beginning with her own husband. This will be my redemption, Hanzo – Jack won’t feel so miserable, he won’t have to be a forced accomplice in Misaki’s crime anymore. You won’t feel bad or guilty for choosing to send me away,” she pauses, and looks into his eyes, “I know they said it would have to be your decision, but I can’t ask you to decide what to do with my life – the responsibility is way too big for just one man, it’s not fair, Hanzo. Who am I to ask you to do such a thing? You are willing to carry the consequences of your decision forever, and I can’t even love you in return,”

How long has she been thinking about it? How long has she been planning the most altruistic redemption?

“Ever since I read that file I became fully aware of just how much I despise this person I’ve become,” she confesses, “according to that report, I killed my husband because a stranger came into my house, and he basically talked me into it. He used words, Hanzo – just words. Maybe I wasn’t strong enough, maybe I wanted that damn part because I was ambitious,” she laughs, “and I was – I had dreams and ambitions, I wanted to be somebody. I wanted to prove to myself that I could make it in the big city, I wanted to prove my parents wrong – I wanted to show Gerard I didn’t need any help,”

As her tears start to stream down her face, the archer sits beside her and wraps her in his arms.

“Any other woman would have left,” she whispers against his ear, “any other ballerina would have noticed that there was something wrong with that audition – and I did notice. But I chose to stay and that’s the cross I have to bare. I wanted a story, Hanzo – and they gave me one but now it’s over – now I have to atone for the million different ways I’ve ruined your life. For Gerard, for every life Widowmaker has taken – for trying to kill you,”

“I forgive you,” the words are so simple, yet he has never said them before, “I know it’s not much, but now you have one less thing to regret,”

His smile is gentle. Simple. Just like his thoughts and his words. Exactly like his silence. It’s warm. It’s welcoming.

She doesn’t seem to mind the weather anymore. The storm can’t reach her there, in the warmth of his embrace.

“You ran to save Jack, and now you want to turn yourself in to help so many others find some peace,” he says, “but I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, that’s not the end your story deserves. Perhaps the cage back in Gibraltar is also the wrong answer.”

“Then what is the right answer?”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t know. But when you’re willing to sacrifice so much to save others, I have no choice but to believe that you know what love is,”

“What are we going to do now?” she whispers as she shifts inside his arms, “You don’t want me to turn myself in, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life inside that cage. After what happened tonight, every single Talon agent will be chasing after us,” she sighs, nearly defeated by her own thoughts, “we can’t go back to Hanamura, can’t join the rest of the team without turning them into giant targets. But we can’t stay together – the order is still there, I’ll attack you again. And there’s your dream, too, Hanzo – you wanted to stay in Shimada Castle, but you can’t stay there on your own. The team is going back to Gibraltar, Jack won’t let you stay after tonight,”

He nods because he knows she’s right. Every single door has been closed. Every single key has been thrown away. There’s no way out. There’s no silver lining at the end of these streets for them.

It snows. It’s cold. It rains. His city still cries for her – and so does he.

The faint light emanating from the street lamp flickers in the rain until darkness overcomes it, and the lovers become yet another chiaroscuro in the nameless night. And there they stay, blending their bodies in the dark, hidden amongst trash cans and urban myths – the former leader of the most dangerous yakuza empire Japan has ever seen and the formidable child from Annecy, the one that wanted a story, the one that dreamt about the blinding lights of Paris and wanted to spend her days dancing on her tiptoes.

Heirs without a fortune. Leaders without followers.

He ties her wrists together with his hair ribbon and her head now rests against his shoulder.

Those who sought the stars in their dreams, now rest underneath the stormy skies.

* * *

  **The third night**

The rain has stopped, but the snow remains and his city, enveloped in white, watches them as they hide in the streets. The storm is finally giving them a break, yet their minds cannot seem to find the peace they need. It doesn’t take her much to convince him to go back to Watchpoint: Tokyo to gather evidence – but the place doesn’t have anything to offer. Talon is gone, and everything that could have proved their presence has been torn from the pages of history.

The bodies are no longer decorating the floor. There’s not a single drop of blood left to recreate last night’s massacre. The invisible hand has cleaned the scene and the historical Watchpoint has now returned to the sepia-colored state that has watched the incessant years of despondency and oblivion go by.

But the light is on in Moira’s office.

The geneticist is not there, only her empty desk welcomes the silent couple as they step inside the room – but every file has been destroyed, every piece of equipment has been taken away.

While Hanzo stays in the office, Amelie steps inside the little room where Moira had kept her prisoner the day before – but she doesn’t call out his name when she sees the small syringe resting carelessly on the ground. The little note that the geneticist has left for her is enough to make her tremble:

_“I knew you’d be back.”_

The content is blue. And her name is written on the side. She doesn’t know what Moira has in store for her – it could be a lethal drug, or perhaps a serum that could help her become Widowmaker once again. There’s a paralyzing fear that makes her doubt before reacting. A pulsing survival instinct that fights her reasoning.

The archer is still searching Moira’s office, and her eyes deconstruct his image as her memory recreates each time he became hers – that skin that covers his body, sun-kissed and dearly arrogant, the voice that never trembles, those hands that can build and destroy in the blink of an eye…

When the voice in her head commands her to hurt him, the woman grabs the syringe and the liquid impregnates her system. It’s thick and cold, even colder than she remembers.

He shall be safe from now on. Even if it kills her.

By the time he realizes she’s gone, it’s already too late. The woman he loves lies unconscious on the floor, and her skin is cold – but the peaceful smile on her lips is adamantly trying to tell him that, perhaps, this was the only way.

He holds her in his arms and curses her over and over again until all insults lose their meaning and become just empty phonemes that cannot explain the nature of his broken faith. There’s a threatening blue that dominates her lips and this winter feels more definitive than any other winter. As he holds her close, impossibly close, he feels his own warmth leaving his body, but as seconds go by he realizes she’s not getting any warmer: he’s the one getting colder and the dragon starves without its fire, it cries in the night when no-one can hear it.

Perhaps it was his fault. Perhaps she has been thinking about it: becoming Widowmaker once again, just like he himself had said – he had said it would be better. He had said that, at least, the cold-blooded assassin wouldn’t suffer as much as Amelie.

As she breathes, tender and slow, death sets in his eyes with unprecedented romanticism. Its dark wings have always flown around him, ever since he was a child. His mother had endured that graceless illness all on her own and the ending had surprised the entire family. But she was only trying to protect the ones she loved the most – she knew the elders would only rejoice in the image of a weak kumicho, knew Sojiro needed to stay strong for their sons. He was but a child back then, thinking that life had surreptitiously taken his mother away one morning – but the woman had suffered in silence for months, protecting him and his brother, sheltering them from a pain they could never understand.

And perhaps his mother would have liked to know that the woman he loves decides, as well, to suffer in silence, trying her best to protect him from a pain he can’t handle. Perhaps his mother would have liked to know that this woman is ready to sacrifice herself so others can live. Perhaps his mother would have liked to know that she is willing to give up everything if that’s what it takes for this man to be safe.

Perhaps his mother would have liked her.

Perhaps…

As the woman rests in his arms, the roaring thunder breaks the night in blinding light and the man knows the rain won’t keep him waiting. The skies of his city still cry for her. And so does he.

* * *

  **The fourth night**

Year after year, his brother has put his own life at arm’s length in order to honor him. Year after year, on a night like this, Hanzo has traveled beyond the city skyline trying to find peace in the familiarity of the last place they visited together. The monument of his defeat was also his favorite place in the whole world – so year after year, on a night like this, the heir would break into Hanamura and fool the shadows with just a little light.

But tonight, he does not come.

Tonight, his dead brother is the one that lights a candle in his honor, as the feather rests by the flame. Then his fingers move the objects: a little to the left, perhaps a little more to the right – Hanzo would have done it better. He would have made it look nicer.

He waits for hours, but his brother does not come. His silhouette is not jumping from the pagoda to the bridge, his nimble feet are not running around rooftops.

He has asked almost every soul in town, but nobody has seen his brother. He has searched the streets and the places he remembers from their youth – but even if people say they remember who his brother is, he doesn’t really believe they know who he’s talking about.

And it hurts.

Probably they don’t even know who he is now – the man that has returned, with his body covered in metal defers greatly from the green haired ninja that lives on in their memories.

“Genji,”

He’s not listening. There’s plenty of voices inside his head.

Is he dead? Is he alive? Would he find this uncertainty familiar? Has he asked himself the same things about his little brother – is he dead, is he alive?

“Genji, the ship is ready,” Angela’s warm hand on his shoulder brings him back to the coldness of the shrine, “they’re waiting,”

Year after year, he has waited for his brother to come. Year after year, he has found peace in Hanzo’s presence. Year after year, his brother has come to show that he does care, that he still bleeds for the Sparrow.      

But this year, Hanzo doesn’t come.

The Sparrow takes Angela’s hand and leaves the shrine.

“I can’t believe it’s still raining,” he whispers absentmindedly on his way out – but deep down he knows that this storm is here to stay.

* * *

  **Morning**

She still rests in his arms and the man can’t help but think it feels exactly like the first time: he is waiting for her to open her eyes and see him, just like he did before, in Gibraltar. And just like that time, she takes her time and colors come and go, creating a variety of blues that make him wonder who is going to wake up: an Amelie he has yet to meet, or perhaps a ruthless, cold-blooded assassin that will laugh at his sentimentality.

But as the rain stops and the blue subsides, the woman opens her eyes and the last lavender trails that paint her existence fade away before his eyes, she’s pale and white, like the snow that covers the city.

“How could you do such a thing? What were you thinking?”

He can’t help himself – the temperamental beast he carries deep inside is still having a hard time balancing his love and his rage. But the woman can only stare at him, a bit surprised by his reaction, and definitely confused by the situation.

And then it strikes him: what if she doesn’t remember him?

Trying to shelter himself from this brand new pain that invades him, he chooses silence over words. And the woman shifts inside his arms – for a moment, he believes, it looks as if she’s trying to hold on to that warmth he has to offer.

But she doesn’t say anything.

When he least expects it, her hands travel to the sides of his face and her long, cold fingers keep him there, near her. He barely feels her lips as their move closer to his mouth, barely registers the tip of her tongue as it traces the outline of his bottom lip.

There’s a fire that grows inside the woman – a blinding fury. A thirst for blood that begins to contaminate her every thought. His bottom lip is captured between her lips and she bites down, roughly. Her breath consumes him, surrounds him – it makes her real again. This hunger defines them.

Her left hand becomes a tight fist but the archer envelops it with his hands – he can feel her fingers trembling underneath, can hear the drumming song of her ignited heartbeat.

She hides her face in his chest, and his arms rest on her back, surrounding her.

“Nothing has changed,” she cries.

She still wants to love that man, and she still wants to hurt him. Talon has played her again – they were never interested in helping her, she has become an amusement, and Moira’s method has been incredibly eloquent: they won’t fix her, but they won’t kill her either. She’ll be their broken toy until the end of time – and there she’ll stay, trapped in the warm embrace of a man that is not safe with her, but that is unable to leave her; prisoner of a nightmare she’ll never wake up from.

Across the white and the city, a lonely feather is rocked by the wind and the candlelight fights its very last fight. The sun flies over the horizon, past the canopy of clouds and finally paints the walls with its familiar luminosity. In the empty shrine, the pantheon of their past, the smoke turns into a shadow and the shadow becomes heat. The peace offering that the Sparrow has left for his brother vanishes in the light of day and the rooftops, white and immaculate, are still waiting for that lonely feather to return to those majestic wings where it once belonged.

But it doesn’t.

It won’t.

Perhaps, like Icarus, they have flown too close to the sun.


	16. The Name of the Wind

Variations on a Theme

Act XVI

Epilogue

**The Name of the Wind**

 

 あなたという 空の中

僕だけを 閉じ込めて

もう どこへも 行かないよ

もう どこにも 行かないで

 

人は皆 空の中

自由という 籠の中

あなただけ いればいい

この空に もう 翼は

...いらない

 Matsushita Yuuya – Bird

 

There were white flowers adorning the window of the space that he used to call his room – the white blanket of falling petals was already enveloping the noble wood. The quiet sounds of such peaceful paleness in the night created subtle bridges between the silent moonlight and all those whitened buildings bathed in its diaphanous aura. It seemed, in a way, that they all were suddenly speaking the same language for the troubled archer to reminisce – it all happened exactly one year ago, the night when he chose to stay with the woman he loved, even if she was unable to bring her troubled mind to love him back. Back then, he knew, he had missed the anniversary of his failure as a brother but tonight, as a new chance to right his wrongs dawned on the calendar, Shimada Hanzo finally returned home and waited for the Sparrow to remember this day as well.

So he traveled, light and nearly anonymously, across the gardens and the trees, past the pagoda and the bridge, to the place where his hopes still lay untouched, moving fast across paths of immaculate white and remembering, fondly, the same avenues of his childhood. White had always been one of his favorite colors; its thirst for all things neutral and even, the pristine image of a prism that can contain all colors and no color at all at the same time. Yet he knew better than to trust his eyes when they showed the iridescent calmness of such a treacherous night; not here, not anymore.

But the precaution that had always adorned these annual visits seemed a little exaggerated, a little out of place now. Hanamura was resting in the quiet night, and the changes, though subtly, were already eager to speak to him. No guards were there, to control the gates. No security had been posted all over the buildings to try and stop him from becoming an outsider in his own portion of the land – only cats were there to purr and meow as the archer walked by. The smallest one of them, a tiny white ball of fur with bright green eyes, even seemed determined to walk around his legs as he silently ventured the family shrine.

The echo of a laughter he had never been able to forget ricocheted all around him the second he stepped inside – he shined bright in full body armor, but his eyes were still free to wonder the image of that brother that, this time, was here to commemorate the passing of the years with him.

“Angelo, that’s enough,” the Sparrow indicated softly, nearly at the verge of laughing, but the cat stayed curled between the archer’s ankles, seeking warmth in the cold, snowy night. There was a small smile that was beginning to light up Hanzo’s face as soon as he heard the name. The gesture, small and nearly undetectable, was a reminder of the heart that still beat underneath countless layers of metal. But the smile faded quickly and turned into a gesture of profound peace the second Genji wrapped his arms around his older brother, finally welcoming him home.

“I thought you were dead,” the younger Shimada whispered, fighting his own emotions, “I searched everywhere, Hanzo,”

It was good to know that, for the first time in his life, someone had actually been waiting for him.

“But where have you been?” Genji went on, giving his brother some space to move freely but still, patting Hanzo’s broad shoulders, “what have you been up to?”

Then the smile returned, taking definitive hold of his expressions, and the archer finally spoke freely.

“In France – while I failed to keep my castle, turns out the woman I’ve been seeing for a little more than a year now has her own chateau in Annecy.” He laughed softly, “and while the architecture is not entirely to my liking, we’ve been busy remodeling and restoring some of the rooms with the money I’ve been saving over the years. It’s a peaceful life, I have to admit. Amelie has her little studio where she designs choreographies for several ballet companies,” the candor in his eyes betrayed him, so the man looked down, “she sends tapes and recordings, and they often buy her pieces, but she doesn’t feel comfortable teaching other people, she thinks she might hurt them… but this method seems to give her some self-confidence,”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Genji said, and the light in his eyes made it clear: his happiness was genuine, even if the thoughts plaguing his mind were enough to break his heart, “So, nothing has truly changed for her, hasn’t it? You still have to tie her hands together every night?”

The archer nodded his head once, softly, and the gesture was enough to contain the unwavering heartache that had become his new best friend.

“What about you, brother?” Hanzo asked, “I thought, after everything that happened last year, you wouldn’t come here today…” there were a million reasons why in his head – because he murdered him, because he was unable to communicate with him when life offered him a second chance, because he chose to leave him again, nearly shaking hands with the enemy in the process…

“Come?” Hanzo’s words startled the younger Shimada for a moment, but his mind quickly reminded him that Hanzo had yet to know about everything he had been up to during the past twelve months.

“I never left.” He offered, simply, “I know you always thought of me as someone who just doesn’t give a shit about your opinion, someone that never listens to you… and that was true, for the most part, when we were younger. But this time I did listen,” he knew his words were dancing on the sharp edge of cockiness, but it was a risk he was more than willing to face.

Only then, the changes began to take real shape all around the stunned archer.

As the former heir of the Shimada empire looked over his shoulder, the castle he remembered from his youth became an incomplete blur in his eyes – the hurricane of memories and textures, of flavors and perfumes, was calling out his name once more.

“What’s with all these cats?” Hanzo demanded quickly, trying to stay afloat during the storm raging inside his head.

There was a timid smile curling up Genji’s lips, Hanzo recognized it the second he saw it. A fatuous light, igniting the Sparrow’s tired eyes.

“I’ve always wanted a cat, but father never let me have one – and thinking back, it’s kind of weird considering he would always let me do almost everything I wanted,” he confessed, and, for a moment, it was hard not to mistake him for a small child, “you didn’t help me either, you could have convinced him,”

A simple, straightforward smirk took over Hanzo’s face as he took a step closer:

“I’m a dog person, and you know it,” he crossed his arms over his chest, proud of his words and his choices, but the smile caught him unaware as one of the cats began to purr between his legs, seeking his warmth once again.

It was small and fragile and just wanted his company. It just longed to find some shelter in him.

_Sounds familiar._

“Anyway, now that I’m living here, I finally adopted one – that small black fella over there is Shu,” Genji said, finally introducing one of the numerous little invaders that were now surrounding them, “but he had many, many friends – and this is quite a big house, you know?”

Hanzo was well aware of his smile. Perhaps, even a little too conscious of this warm happiness that tickled and brushed against his legs. But there was another sort of happiness that was still waiting for him to return home – a colder one, perhaps. A darker one.

“We adopted two stray dogs,” the older dragon said, “they wouldn’t leave, they would always wait for us to feed them, and I thought that was strange – that’s when I realized Amelie had been feeding them behind my back,” a quick chuckle, far from elegant, yet immensely sincere, “one day I opened the front door and they made themselves comfortable in our living room – the thing with animals is that they force you to stay alert: the second they realize they own the place, it’s over,”

Genji nodded his head, unable to keep count of all the kittens that had taken over Shimada Castle during the last year.

“Tell me about it,” he laughed, “I’m dangerously outnumbered here,”

“You’ll be fine,” Hanzo said, and his hand reached out and landed on his brother’s nearest shoulder, “you’ve always owned the place like no-one,”

Melancholy became him.

“That’s bullshit, you know I never really cared about this place,”

“Then why did you stay?”

_How could I leave?_

“For you,” his eyes were still so powerful, so tired and ready… “I guess a part of me was still waiting for you to return, and another part of me – the most pessimist part of me – was just trying to make sure your dreams would get to see the light of day,”

_How could I leave?_

“Genji,” the name was a whisper now and the wind was busy, carrying every single letter and shaping up that unmistakable identity of his. Metal cupped his hands, and, for the first time, it was enough for the man to realize that the vessel standing right in front of him was far from empty.

“No, Hanzo… you’ve grown so much – I can clearly remember the boy who couldn’t even kiss the girl from the ramen shop and now you’ve given up everything for Amelie, you two are living together… you’ve come a long way,” his voice became weaker with every word that left his mouth.

Eyes wide open, the echoes of their past were still whispering songs of defeat in their ears.

“But you always said that my dreams were mine and mine alone, Genji,” the older Shimada remembered, “you don’t have to stop living your life so I can feel better about myself,”

A soft sigh. Silence. Wind. The small smile that screamed soundlessly near the corners of his mouth defined him.

“That dream was yours and yours alone; the original one,” Genji reckoned, “but the dream you brought here, the one about becoming a better man, the one about cleansing our name and making something good out of this place,” the pause prolonged his honesty, “I could share that dream, brother... In fact, I do,” he sat down on the floor, with his arms surrounding his own knees, “when you left that night, I couldn’t stand it: because you had really persevered this time, and you really wanted it all to happen… but in the blink of an eye, you were ready to give up on your dream to save Amelie – it was so unfair but so generous of you at the same time,”

“But how did you…” one of his knees touched the ground, “You don’t have a job, Genji, how did you manage to…?”

The Sparrow looked over his shoulder,

“I had help,”

“From the doctor and the cowboy?” Hanzo asked, but didn’t wait for an answer, “And speaking of the cowboy, I’m not really fond of the idea that your boyfriend tried to kill me,”

“We broke up before you left,” Genji confessed, then his eyes got lost in the dull blur that was still trying to color that final night, “I don’t think Jesse was trying to kill you, Hanzo – I guess he was trying to prove Talon that we were still in control,”

Hanzo sat right next to his younger brother. His arms were wrapped around his knees, exactly like Genji’s.

“He took three shots at me – if it wasn’t for you,”

He was no stranger to this conversation. He had already explored every possibility in his mind.

“Well, he loved me, and you tried to murder me long ago – perhaps there was some resentment in the back of his mind that I couldn’t see,” the Sparrow offered, “It took me some time to figure out why he’d chose to shoot you that night, but I guess that, perhaps, he might have thought that by joining them, you were already dead,”

Hanzo looked down, knowing the feeling all too well: once the elders said that Genji had to die, Hanzo knew his brother was already dead.

“Could be,” a small concession fell from his lips as he closed his eyes, trying to erase the memory, “anyway, I’m sorry you two broke up – but I’m happy you’re no longer seeing someone who’s more than willing to murder your older brother,” he tried to laugh, but his lips betrayed him.

Thank god Genji’s lips still knew what to do.

“Hanzo, you’re forty-one,” the Sparrow whispered, “forty-one…” the words were louder now, as the smile kept growing wider, “just make me an uncle already, I think I deserve it,”

The joke traveled in the wind. It was light and simple – white, like the snow. It took Hanzo some time to read beyond each word – but then he saw it, and quickly felt how each letter was burning inside his chest: of all people, Genji was able to see his brother as a potential father, as a man who, in spite of all his mistakes, could be somebody’s father.

He looked down instinctively. He couldn’t take the implications of such a statement.

“Oh no, I…” he began, almost apologetically, although he didn’t really know what to say or how to say it, “well, she can’t have children, and you know I never really liked the idea of having kids anyway,”

For a moment, it was clear the news had caught Genji completely unaware – but then Hanzo remembered every single conversation they had chosen not to have during their youth.

No.

His brother didn’t know.

His brother had no clue he didn’t want to become a father. Not then, and definitely not now.

“But how about you? Are you seeing anyone, are you still with the doctor?” Hanzo asked rapidly, trying to break free from the silent scrutiny in Genji’s eyes.

“No, we broke up,” the Sparrow told, “but yes, I’ve been seeing someone,”

“Someone I know?”

“No,” the time Hanzo had spent in Gibraltar seemed so distant now that, for a moment, Genji struggled to remember that his brother had indeed met Song during his brief stay in the Watchpoint, so he corrected himself quickly, as soon as he realized his mistake, “yes – Hana, she pilots a mech and she,”

“Is she legal?” Hanzo interrupted his brother, visibly concerned, “She’s so much younger than you, I mean…”

“Hanzo…”

Luckily for him, the night helped him cover the red that was burning bright all over his cheeks. And the former heir sighed, nearly defeated, as he stumbled upon his own words and tripped.

“Well, I guess… since you’ve always been sort of a predator, I guess something like this was bound to happen: you, pushing forty, harassing school girls… that’s disgusting,”

Genji shook his head, nearly frustrated.

“She’s not a school girl,” the Sparrow retorted, “but it’s not that kind of bond. We go out from time to time, we have dinner every once in a while, and we can talk for hours but it’s not… romantic, I told you I’m,”

Hanzo nodded his head pensively and interrupted his brother.

“Not that man anymore,”

_I listen. I listen when you speak. I do._

“Do you feel safe?” Hanzo asked, unable to survive Genji’s silence, “Living here, on your own… what if they come for you?” Genji’s eyes seemed far now, existing only in an unreachable distance where Hanzo was no longer invited, “I had no idea you were living here, Genji – my actions have put you in danger once again,”

When his brother surrounded him with his arms, the defeated leader lowered his guard and truly listened.

“I could ask you the same thing: do you feel safe inside that castle?”

_Are we still talking about Talon?_

“Are we ever going to live without having to look over our shoulders?” Genji questioned, “Ever since I was a child I’ve always had to endure the same feeling, you know? Even back then, during the clan years when the real power was ours, when we were the so-called untouchable ones, I have always looked over my shoulder, I have always sensed an enemy there, near, lurking in the dark,”

_Near._

_It was oh so near._

“It’s the only life we know,” Hanzo helped him, “and frankly, I don’t think that’s ever going to change,”

This new embrace was both, past and present – but their tenses were not in flux. Not anymore.

“Your friend is perhaps the biggest contributor to this peace we’ve found,” the Sparrow confessed, letting go of his brother, “Jack never returned to Gibraltar either – he’s out there, somewhere, playing cat and mouse with Talon, keeping them busy, keeping them from turning their attention back to us,”

_Jack… you really don’t know how to live without the shadows._

“So,” Hanzo whispered, brokenhearted, “Angela is…”

“Alone again,” Genji admitted, “I guess your words really made an impact in him after all. It sucks that she’s found the one she loves only to watch him go again, not knowing if he’s ever going to be back – but I agree with you: Jack has reached a certain point in his life where he just does not exist without Talon,” he stared into his older brother’s eyes: “I think you’re right, Hanzo – the moment he stops running after them, he’ll cease to exist,”

Hanzo stood up only to sit down again. Then he stood again, then one of his knees touched the ground - the night felt colder somehow. He looked over his shoulder – this darkness wasn’t exactly new, he remembered.

“Still, I think you should call your friend, you know? You should nurture that friendship,” Genji helped him, noticing Hanzo’s evident unease.

“You said he’s on the run, Genji, how am I supposed to find him?”

The Sparrow smiled tenderly and shrugged his shoulders.

“You are Hanzo Shimada, you know how,” he patted his brother’s shoulder, “at least let him know you’re alive – let him know you’re doing fine, that Amelie is doing fine – I’m sure he’ll appreciate the gesture,”

_Like I do._

“Genji,”

The Sparrow shook his head, “Why didn’t you call?” he demanded, unable to hold back the frustration any longer, “Why didn’t you come back? At least to say goodbye, I think I deserved that much from you,”

He knew the words he was about to say like the back of his own hand. He had been practicing for years, trying to find the right tone, the perfect elocution. But when the moment came, and every sound lingered parsimoniously in his mouth the man took a deep breath, and dedicated a moment to taste every letter.

“I’m sorry,” Hanzo finally whispered, “I really am, Genji, I thought I’d be putting you in danger by coming back here – then we felt it, we both felt it – the need to leave everything behind and start over, free from all the chains that had restricted us before, free from the organizations and the expectations that had been placed upon us,” he felt the tears as they began to warm up his face in the cold night, “free from the hope we could see in your eyes – the hope that was forcing us to try to be better when all we had was the uncertainty of not knowing if we could be any better,” he confessed, “we’re nothing now, Genji – we have no titles, no affiliations, no one expects anything from us anymore. Now we’re just Hanzo and Amelie – and we’re not Overwatch, not Talon. We’re just  _us_ ,” he paused, and took a deep breath, “and for the first time, we’re fine with us being just  _us_ ,”

Genji’s silence was trying to make the man believe his brother was but a figment of his imagination. So Hanzo reached out once more, holding his brother in his arms.

“Did you really think I was dead?” he asked.

“A part of me did,” Genji confessed, visibly overcome by the conflicting emotions that were still washing over him, “maybe that’s why I stayed here all this time, trying to do the things you were supposed to do, trying to live the life you would have wanted to live – because I would have done that much for you,” when Genji started to cry they both knew, they both were certain of it: the storm was never going to stop, the storm was never going to leave them alone, “I could never honor you with prayers and rituals – I once heard that we are our prayers… but I got so much blood on my hands I could never be a prayer, Hanzo… but when your dream became something good, something that could inspire others… for the first time I felt like we could actually see eye to eye – then, in the blink of an eye, you were gone but all your plans remained here – and I was here too, brother.” Genji went on, “This is how I chose to honor you, Hanzo – I did not pray for you, I did not make you a martyr: I made you a verb, I made you an action. I honored you by making your dreams come true, brother,”

He looked down, exhausted and nearly spent.

“It was either that or to accept the possibility that you had actually joined Talon,” he finally admitted.

“I could never join them, Genji,” Hanzo said, “not after learning the part they played in our own history, not after what they did to Amelie,”

A small moment of silence enveloped them but Genji stayed there, close to his older brother’s chest.

“Speaking about Talon, what happened to the hacker?” Hanzo asked after a while.

“She survived, thanks to Angela,” Genji explained, “but both she and Jesse disappeared that very same night and none of us has seen them ever since… I suspect that Mercy knows where they are, though – a while back I thought I heard her say something about Manilla, but, you know… it could have been vanilla,” he smiled tenderly, almost innocently, “but I believe Jesse’s closer than we think,”

“What makes you say that?”

“Last time I checked Winston’s inventory, the number of prosthetic arms that were designed for him by the Swedish engineer and Mercy had inexplicably decreased from six replacements to only four,” the Sparrow laughed briefly, and Hanzo understood that this pain, this uncertainty was not entirely dark.

“Sounds like he’s having a good time, then,” the older dragon mused.

“Could be…” Genji said, taking his brother’s hand in his – it was time, he knew, “Come, let me show you around,”

They didn’t care about the snow or the wind anymore. The rain was not enough to bring them down and the view, for a moment, detached itself from the weather as Shimada Castle showed its brand new colors to the blue dragon. Together, then, the brothers marched in the night across paths that seemed trapped between the corridors of their past, and this clumsy present.

Genji stopped in front of the shrine and took a deep breath – this was it, the moment he had imagined so many times during Hanzo’s absence.

“The family shrine is now a public museum – it was donated to the city government by the last Shimada,” Genji explained as they stepped inside the room, “we’ve moved father’s private library to the great temple, and the clan’s weapons are displayed for people to see,” he paused, and waited for a reaction that still, would not come, “for people to understand the true atrocity of the yakuza dogma,” a deep breath left him, and he indicated his brother to follow him outside, “there’s also a resting area around the pagoda where people can come and read peacefully under the sakura trees while they enjoy a cup of tea; couples come from all over the country and take pictures on the bridge,” he pointed out with his index finger, although there was no-one there this late at night, “they all seem to agree on the fact that romance is still alive in here…”

Only then Hanzo spoke:

“What about Father and Mother?”

“We removed their gravestones to try to protect them from any possible acts of vandalism, but we did not move their bodies, Hanzo,” Genji explained quickly, “our parents are still together under those trees, maybe that’s why people think that this is such a romantic spot after all – they endure, together, and witness every couple that comes over, every lonely stranger that comes and waits for someone to come their way over the bridge,”

The older Shimada nodded, but still chose silence over words and Genji lowered his head for a minute, before walking towards another building.

“The old mausoleum where every single clan member was buried was sold to the government; we needed the money, and I’m positive no-one will miss those guys,” he said, “as you can see, the castle is no longer the way you remember – it’s smaller now,” he was afraid of Hanzo’s reaction, and his voice was beginning to show, “but a smaller castle also means fewer taxes to pay and less maintenance; the city government lets us keep a rather generous percentage of the profit, we have total ownership of every piece exhibited in the museum, clothes, weapons, books…”

Still nothing.

“Last but not least, the old catacombs where the clan used to store their weapons, cars, money and illegal substances,”

“That part that doesn’t show up in any of the blueprints…” Hanzo remembered.

“Precisely,” Genji nodded his head and smiled, thankful for that interruption, “that zone is currently under construction: Winston and Athena have been putting together a collection of the old archives from many of the original Watchpoints that were scattered all over the globe.  It is my job to run and direct this project: The Overwatch Historical Archives,”

The older dragon took a good look around and nodded his head in silence, quietly absorbing every change.

“Well,” Genji’s anxiety was beginning to overpower him, “what do you think?”

Silence.

“Hanzo… do you like all these changes?” He asked again, nervously, “Do you hate what I’ve done to this place? Please, tell me, say something, Hanzo, I need to know,”

Silence.

“Hanzo, I’m not a child anymore – I can take it,” he begged, “if you hate it, I can take it,”

“I… don’t hate it,” Hanzo finally said, and his voice was filled with admiration and surprise, “it’s clever – what you did here, it’s so clever - I couldn’t have done a better job myself but how… how did you manage to work with the government? Do they know you’re alive?”

Genji shook his head, already bracing himself for the worse.

“I told you I had help, brother,” he said, “and even if all this was my idea, I knew my name was never going to help us,” Genji admitted, “first a yakuza boy, then a Blackwatch member, then Overwatch… the law is not our friend, brother – it never was.”

He turned around and crossed his arms over his chest as the older dragon contemplated his thoughtful expression.

“Genji Shimada is dead, Hanzo – and you…” he sighed, “you’re a myth, a legend – presumed dead by the authorities… but the Shimada name was not dead yet – the last heir heard me out, and she decided to help. She was the one who took a step forward and shook hands with the government so my plans, the only way I found for your dreams to live on after your disappearance, could get to see the light of day,”

_She._

“Rei?”

Genji sighed, the pain in his eyes was evident.

“No, Hanzo, Rei is not a Shimada,” Genji finally spoke, “it’s Himari,”

“No…” Hanzo shook his head, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Hanzo – of course, the second she opened her mouth there was a DNA test and…”

“But…” the older Shimada cut him off, unable to accept the facts, “but when she was born… when Himari was born Mother was,”

“Alive,”

_It hurts. I know._

“But… Himari is older than you.” Hanzo cried out, as the truth lashed his skin and the last image of a happy childhood died in the night, “He cheated on her, Genji, how could he?”

“Hanzo,”

“She was dying,” Hanzo lamented, “she was dying, and he was fucking his maid!”

“Hanzo, they’re all dead,” his hands were resting on his older brother’s shoulders now, even when the Sparrow knew there was nothing he could do to ease the pain, “and father loved our mother, no-one can ever doubt that,”

“He betrayed her, Genji,” Hanzo whispered, broken and shaken by the news, “he betrayed us,”

The Sparrow let go from his brother and braced himself – silence, shadows and lies had always defined them. But not anymore.

“Hanzo, I knew,” he finally confessed, “he told me, when I was young, I’ve always known – that’s why I didn’t want to read our mother’s favorite book when Father gave it to me,” he couldn’t stand the look on those eyes, “he told me he loved both of them and, back then, I just couldn’t comprehend, I couldn’t understand – but now I know you can love more than one person at a time, brother,”

“It’s not the same,” Hanzo yelled.

“Probably not, Hanzo, probably not,” the Sparrow looked down, “but he was careful enough not to let our mother find out, and he was careful enough to protect you from this feeling for as long as he lived,”

 _Father loved you, Hanzo_.

“He knew how much you loved Mother, knew that such a revelation could destroy you – and he knew that he himself and the clan had taken so much away from you, he could not stand the idea of damaging you any more…” He took a step forward, moving closer to the wounded dragon, “Father loved you, Hanzo – the fact that he chose to shield you from the truth proves it,”

_This is our secret Hanzo – we must protect your brother._

“I wasn’t the only one he was shielding from the truth, brother,” Hanzo whispered, brokenhearted, taking Genji’s hand in his, “you would have been a great leader,”

Unbeknownst to the dragon siblings, their father had created a system of mutual yet undetectable dependence. Sojiro had chosen Hanzo to watch over Genji’s mind and, subsequently, the man had chosen Genji to watch over Hanzo’s heart. Sojiro knew that his youngest son’s heart was an unbreakable fortress, knew Genji’s heart was enough for his son to be safe – but the man also knew that the clan’s teachings had eroded Hanzo’s emotions, weakening his heart in the process. The future heir had become all mind, no feelings were allowed to interfere. Sojiro knew Hanzo was not ready to take the blow and accept that his father had cheated on his mother – so he chose Genji, and made him understand that his older brother’s heart was in his hands. But unlike Hanzo, Genji had rejected the clan and all its vices from a very young age – his heart was strong, but his mind was weak; he lacked the vision of a leader, lacked the cold-blooded determination the elders had mercilessly carved into Hanzo’s will. So he chose Hanzo to make sure Genji would endure the cruel years to come, far from the throne he had always rejected. This intricate chess game had helped the former kumicho find some peace of mind, knowing that his sons needed each other mutually yet tacitly, to look after the other’s weakest side.

The system was too perfect. Too perfect to function as intended. Too perfect to last forever.

“I would have destroyed the clan, Hanzo,”

The Sparrow breathed in and out of honesty, and his older brother finally smiled in return, acknowledging the refreshing sounds of a truth that would have made him snap over a decade ago.

“Precisely,”

The unexpected answer shook the Sparrow from within.

“I don’t think I could have done a better job than you, Hanzo,” Genji said and, for a moment, his eyes seemed to be lost in thought, as if contemplating the  _what if_  that had never happened, “let’s be real, a strong sense of leadership has always been one of your greatest virtues, but it has never been mine,”

“Are you sure?” Hanzo asked, moving closer, “Look around you, Genji, take a good look at every single thing you’ve done for this place,”

A part of him was longing to believe that Hanzo was right. He was certain it takes leadership and determination to achieve such spectacular results, after all. But also love. Lots of it.

“It was a lot of work, Hanzo,” the Sparrow said softly and lowered his head for a short moment – until his chin rose up again, and his eyes met Hanzo’s: “but I must confess it was immensely rewarding,”

The older dragon frowned – perhaps his brother couldn’t see the true meaning behind his words. Perhaps the veil they had placed on his eyes was still there, covering the truth.

“Genji, you don’t understand,” he shook his head, breaking eye contact, “you  _should_  have been the leader – not me,” he could hear every layer of his pride finally succumbing to this newborn honesty, the hours that had devoured his sanity and corroded the light in him were finally abandoning the hourglass of his existence - then he ventured this new darkness, and emerged free and anew, unbound and forever detached from the last great burden he had been forced to carry: “but Father knew you didn’t want to be the clan’s kumicho, and I knew the task could potentially destroy you – so we lied to you, trying our best to protect you…” his voice trailed off, his throat was about to betray him, “but I was wrong, Genji – you would have been a great kumicho because you would have destroyed the clan, and not the other way around,”

The man that emerged from the darkness.

That man –  _his brother_. The one he hasn’t really seen or talked to since the day he turned fourteen.

“Hanzo…”

His older brother’s arms caught him by surprise. Across time and distance, beyond each embrace and every word. His arms still held the power to surprise him. His arms still had that kind of power.

“Genji, I’m so sorry,” Hanzo whispered, “all those years… I was disappointed, frustrated by my own failure – I promised our father I would always protect you, we chose to hide the truth from you… but it was never enough. Even if all the responsibility had been placed upon my shoulders, you still weren’t happy, you still could not break free – it hurt like hell, Genji… watching you, every time you would try to destroy yourself because you couldn’t feel like you belonged,” he looked down, breaking the embrace, holding metallic fingers in his hands, “my protection was never enough, brother. My protection never made you feel any better, and I’m so sorry…”

_My protection killed you._

Genji tried to reach out for him, but Hanzo seemed long gone. Those eyes of his, distant and evocative, were depicting every flaw inside that man with unprecedented accuracy.

“Life has a funny way to ensure those who have sinned will find expiation in the elusive path they walk,” the older Shimada mused, “maybe it’s karma, you know? I often think that Amelie’s inability to love me back is the punishment I deserve for what I did to you,”

_These wounds won’t fade. This blood won’t dry._

_This storm, this pain… it’s not going anywhere. And it never will._

“Hanzo, we talked about this, you know I forgave you long ago – even if I had to fight an old rancor and a brand new fear, you know I have forgiven you, brother,” Genji tried, even when he knew it was almost pointless, “I know you were as much of a victim of the clan as I was – you were never the final product of their dogma, you were never the outcome: you endured, for as long as you could, burying the pain, taking each blow, worrying about Mother, about Father, about me…” he said, and struggled with the words that were still shaping up the fear he had always felt, “it took me years to realize: back then, I would often say that you had left me all alone, but the truth is I was never the companion you needed. I wasn’t there for you if you wanted to talk, I wasn’t there to watch your silent struggle…” he breathed out, exhausted, “my impertinence, my rebelliousness, my own desperation turned me into yet another burden for you to carry, instead of making things easier for you, I turned myself into yet another complication… you say you should have helped me, and you’re right – but I should have helped you as well,”

“You don’t understand, Genji,” Hanzo yelled and, for a moment, he could recognize the fear inside his brother’s eyes, “Life has a funny way to make sure every single piece of the puzzle is eventually put back where it belongs,”

He had become both, the bitter irony and the melancholic metaphor.

“I failed the ritual, Genji,”

It was the simplest line he had ever told anyone. The words left his mouth and the man couldn’t even feel their subtle weight as they ventured the outside. But the sound they made as they filled the air was loud enough to destroy his ears.

“Father and I were only trying to protect you – that’s why we didn’t tell you. We didn’t want you to ever experience what I had experienced,” he closed his eyes for a second, the image was still too strong, “but you should have been the clan’s kumicho, not me.” His younger brother was staring back at him in silence, in his eyes, both gratitude and sorrow were trying to balance his emotions, “As years went by, I kept telling myself that we had made the right decision: you were not interested in the clan, let alone the possibility of leading it… but Shimada Castle has always been yours – ever since the day I turned fourteen…” Hanzo sighed, “this castle is  _your_ castle, Genji, not mine,”

He still didn’t know what this _ritual_  involved, and he still didn’t want to know the details of the night that had corrupted his brother – but now he knew that Hanzo had failed it. Unexpectedly, of course. The clan’s wonder child did not live up to their expectations. He had no clue about the woman, the blood, the sword and the beast – but even if his eyes were still unable to picture the events that had happened that night, inside a room with no windows, it became clear that each actor had played their part, hurting an innocent child, corrupting his essence.

“It never felt mine…” the Sparrow whispered, “I was born here, spent my childhood and my youth between these walls and then I returned with you, and I stayed for you – to wait for you, to make sure your dreams were safe… but even so, this place has never felt truly mine, brother,” he lowered his head again, a timid grin was beginning to take over his face, “life has its ways, I agree… but even if I’m happy here, looking past all the hard work and the countless hours I spent trying to make this place a better place for everyone, I still don’t know if I really want to be here,”

_If I really belong here._

“When you look around you and you see everything you’ve done, how does it feel?” Hanzo took his brother’s hand in his, the clash of textures colliding suddenly didn’t feel so out of place anymore. There was a certain warmth to those silver fingers – he had no choice but to accept it.

“Immensely rewarding,”

_Then perhaps my work here is done._

“Then perhaps my absence did what my presence never could,” Hanzo said, “perhaps it helped you find your way back home for you to finally belong, for you to finally do all the things you would have done if only Father and I had given you the opportunity,”

The Sparrow tilted his head to the side, “destroy the clan, and everything it stood for, and make sure my brother is at peace with himself,” Genji mused quietly, and the question presented itself clear and determined, “are you, Hanzo? Are you finally at peace with yourself?”

For a moment, the small movement in Hanzo’s neck was enough to make him think that his older brother had nodded his head, offering some sort of silent affirmation. But as the rain continued to fall, and the wind whistled all around him, the Sparrow realized that it could have been a trick of the night. Maybe.

Maybe.

“I think Orochi knew I had failed the ritual,” Hanzo said, “I should have confronted him that final night, but I was so overwhelmed… it makes sense: if he knew you were the legitimate heir… You said they were working with Talon – the second you found out about their deals, it was over. I was their puppet, and they were the clan’s true voice: they needed the heir to disappear,” Hanzo understood, and the word  _heir_  danced in his tongue with unparalleled freedom, “they knew I couldn’t stay after hurting you,”

“Orochi and the elders were behind everything, Hanzo,” Genji acknowledged, “behind every decision, behind every word…”

“There is one thing I never fully understood – why did Orochi say that you were with Overwatch?” Hanzo questioned, “He must have been desperate to say such a thing – but, thinking it over, if he truly wanted me to kill you, I got to admit it was a rather powerful line,” he reckoned, “or perhaps it had to do with the way that man saw the world: you were either an ally or a foe, there was nothing in between those two possibilities. They were aligned with Talon and we were not – but that didn’t make us Overwatch,”

“I was, Hanzo,” Genji whispered, taking his brother by surprise and nearly leaving him breathless, “sort of…”

_It’s time._

“Do you still want to know where I go every Sunday night?”

_They met on a train, from Tokyo to Kyoto. She was reading a book, though he can’t bring his mind to remember the title. The sun was bathing her pale skin, the red hat she was wearing was almost covering her jet-black hair – he sat next to her, and quickly tried to strike up a conversation, but she simply wasn’t interested._

_Or so it seemed._

_She was a ballerina. Born and raised in Hokkaido. She had spent one week in Tokyo with her family and was now going to Kyoto to spend her last week of vacation on her own. Then she would go back to Paris – to the lights and the romantic dreams of an artist._

_He was on a mission. The yakuza boy and the dancer. Some things are just not meant to be._

_When they stepped off the train, an ocean of people tried to separate them – but the boy grabbed her hand, and the girl smiled, taken aback by his straightforwardness. He told her where he would be staying at, and the girl smiled but did not say anything. He tried to make plans for the night, ask her out, but she said he was not her type._

_“Maybe if you were taller, or… I don’t know… had green hair or something,” she laughed as she turned around._

_Her name was Niko._

_He followed her and once he had learned in which hotel she was staying, he went back to his hotel and dyed his hair green. He was a player, always had been, but this one was different. This one was ready to make him work. He stood outside her hotel door until she came out and laughed at him the second she saw him. He was persistent. That was out of the question._

_He didn’t tell her who he was. She only knew that his name was Genji._

_They spent the entire week together – singing late at night, in countless karaoke bars, until the lyrics of Bennie and the Jets lost all meaning. They tried their best to stop time, but the days kept flying by, eager to leave them behind. They took a million pictures, trying to fool time and all its pointless avatars. But it was not enough. She was more than a week, more than her laugh, more than the songs and the city streets that had been witnessing their days._

_Kyoto was theirs. He forgot about his mission. Forgot all about the clan and the chains around his ankles. It was perfect – everything was perfect. But time was not willing to stop. When the week came to an end, they didn’t want to say goodbye. They went back to Tokyo, she was supposed to get on a plane the next day._

_He came back home, determined. Saw his brother, took a picture with him for the years to come – the idea had already taken root inside his head. Niko was waiting for him._

_He sneaked her inside Shimada Castle that night, while everyone was asleep. They swam in the pond, ran across the bridge – until he finally came clean, and told her the truth: he was a Shimada. She remembered the name almost immediately – she had heard stories, she had heard her father speak about the clan on countless occasions. When she confessed to him that his father was Overwatch, Genji understood that the modern-day Romeo and Juliet they were living could destroy them._

_When he looked into her eyes, he found a fear he had never seen before. A thirst for freedom that matched his own._

_He had always rejected the clan._

_He was no Yakuza, and she was not Overwatch._

_They should have left them alone._

_She promised she wouldn’t say a word about his heritage to her father and, in exchange, he promised he wouldn’t tell the elders about her father. The last night they spent together should have been the beginning of a new life – but it was filled with tears and an unspoken fear._

_They said goodbye before dawn – she went home to pack her bags and Genji stayed in the castle, packing up as well. They were supposed to meet at the airport at 9 PM that day. Later that afternoon, he went out and said goodbye to his closest friends: he was leaving. He was never coming back to Hanamura._

“That night, I was only getting back home when I saw them – Orochi and a few elders, they were speaking about this alliance between the clan and Talon,“ Genji reminisced bitterly, “I was determined to go to my room, pack the rest of my bags and leave – I was going to move to Paris with her, and start anew… but they saw me,” he lowered his head, “I ran through the corridors and locked myself up in my room – I gathered some of my belongings and called her father: I figured that, if I was about to disappear, I had to help you. So I told him everything.”

Hanzo’s hands on his shoulders were helping him find the strength to go on.

“Her father was an Overwatch commander, one of the highest ranked members in Tokyo,” the Sparrow remembered, “I came clean about everything: I told him who I was, told him I didn’t want to be a part of the clan,” he stared into his older brother’s eyes, already looking for forgiveness, “I told him about you, about the clan and about Talon and I begged him, Hanzo, I wanted him to help you out… but they must have heard,”

“He said you were with Overwatch…” Hanzo said, his mind already traveling back to the events of that dark and tremulous night.

“Years later, while I was working with Blackwatch, I learned that Talon had previously approached Father, but he had rejected their offer, and I know you would have rejected Talon as well,” Genji added, “both heirs needed to disappear that night, Hanzo, and it was easy, it was so incredibly easy: we didn’t speak much back then, when you asked me if I was with Overwatch…”

“Genji…” The feeling was blinding him. The words had completely abandoned him.

“I was on their side, Hanzo, but I was only trying to get you out of all that shit, I wanted you to be safe,” he was crying, “I wasn’t trying to betray you, Hanzo,”

Years of silence. Entire eras of broken conversations and mismatched dialogues. If only they had been brave enough to speak to each other. They were weapons, and blood and dogmatic prayers – they thought they were free in their silence, they thought they owned it. But it was never like that.

“So you never…” Hanzo began to address the premonition with ineffable torment, “When I attacked you, she was… she was waiting for you - you lost everything you cared about that night,”

If only they had spoken. If only they had talked to each other.

“Ironically enough, I was saved by Overwatch,” Genji said,

Niko’s father and his men were posted near Shimada Castle, waiting to intervene and help Genji – but when he saw Hanzo leaving Hanamura, he ordered his men not to capture the heir, just like Genji had asked. After Hanzo’s disappearance minutes became hours and the man, still outside the castle, understood that something was wrong. He waited, and waited, but Genji never left. So overwatch advanced that night, fighting their good fight and finally cornering the enemy. But as his men worked, Niko’s father went looking for the Sparrow until he found him in the shrine, covered in blood, and nearly dead. They sent the body to Watchpoint: Tokyo and Doctor Ziegler joined them in a matter of hours – but hope was fading. Brokenhearted, the father called his girl and told her that Genji was almost dead – so Niko came over, took his hand in hers, and said goodbye.

“Does she know you’re alive?” Hanzo whispered, but Genji only shook his head in silence, “Why?”

“When I woke up, her father came to see me,” he explained, “I asked him not to tell her. She thinks I died that night, right after she left Watchpoint: Tokyo – and perhaps it’s better that way. She’s married now, she has kids, a normal life, Hanzo – something I could have never given her,” the pause took him back to that bed, back to Watchpoint: Tokyo – back to the feeling of her hand in his hand, to that weak voice, whispering the final goodbye. “Now I only get to see her once a week, through a window – and you have the woman you love, but you still have to tie her hands together every night,” it was impossible not to see the parallelisms between them, the curse over their hearts still reigning supreme, “What would our father think of what we've become, brother?"

"It's hard to say who he'd be more disappointed by." Hanzo smiled bitterly.

“You know she is not necessarily going to attack you during the night, right?” the Sparrow pointed out, still worried, but Hanzo shook his head.

“I know, but as long as I’m awake, I can protect myself,” he said, “but I’m completely defenseless when I sleep, Genji,”

Hanzo looked away, and Genji grabbed him by the hand once more.

“I almost forgot, I got something for you,” he said, “follow me,” the Sparrow led his brother back inside the house and guided him to his office – Sojiro’s office.

_Your office._

“Here, I haven’t forgotten about this,” he said as he offered Hanzo the book he loved so much – their mother’s favorite book, “this book is yours, Hanzo, always has been. I read it, but it’s time for it to return to its rightful owner,”

Fragile against his skin, that book was now a souvenir for the archer to remember his entire family, not just his mother.

“Angelo, please,” the Sparrow’s voice brought him back to reality, as the little cat jumped on top of the desk, only to sit on Genji’s lap. “Hey, why don’t you stay for dinner?” Genji said as he looked at his brother, but Hanzo frowned and turned around.

“I… I should get going,”

“Come on, I want you to meet her,” Genji insisted.

“Who?” Hanzo looked over his shoulder, looking confused.

“Himari,”

“But I know her,” the older Shimada said, looking resolute.

“No, you don’t,” Genji retorted, leaving Angelo on the desk and joining his brother, “you know Himari, the maid’s daughter – but this is an entirely different person, Hanzo,” he said, “this is Himari, your half-sister,”

For a moment, the light in Hanzo’s eyes seemed bright, even diaphanous. But then it disappeared.

“I…” the archer mumbled, “I have to go back home,”

He was leaving. Again.

“Hanzo, this is your home,” Genji demanded, “I’m not saying that the castle you share with Amelie is not your home, I’m sure it is – but this is your home too,” frustration was beginning to get the best of him, “why are you like this? Why do you feel like you have to run away?”

“I’m not running away,” Hanzo yelled, turning around to meet his brother’s afire gaze, “This is the first time I’m leaving her alone, Genji, and I worry: I worry about her, about everything that can happen while I’m gone,” he lowered his voice, knowing his temper was not going to help him, “Annecy is far away, brother… I can’t stay here any longer,” he moved closer to the brother that had been waiting for him, the one that had shared his honesty, the one that had made his dream come true, “I’m glad I came,” he whispered, “I’m proud of you, Genji, I’m proud of everything you’ve accomplished,”

“But you can’t stay,”

Hanzo shook his head.

“I chose to leave her alone and come here to honor you, to remember you, to feel a little closer to you,” he said, “I didn’t even know you would be here waiting for me… your presence, your generosity, your truth, Genji… your honesty…” one step closer, his arms were surrounding Genji now, “I love you, Genji,”

_How long has it been?_

“And I love you too, Hanzo,” the Sparrow whispered, breaking the embrace, “but you win, like you always do,” he took a step back, and leaned his back on the wall, “even if Amelie is unable to love you back, you do have her; you had a dream but you weren’t able to make it true, but someone else did it for you, so your legacy could be clean, so your legacy could live on…” he said, “but you’re doing it again, Hanzo – you’ve trapped me here, in your castle, in your dream,”

“You said it was rewarding,”

“It is,” Genji smiled, though the gesture did not reach his eyes, “and I like it, Hanzo, I like your dream. But do you know what’s the thing I like the most about your dream?” he asked, “That it’s yours, that it was born from good intentions, that it was born from a new perspective that helped you change, and become a better man – but this is not the life I would have chosen for myself,” he lowered his head, “this is still your dream, Hanzo, not mine – and the only thing I want, the only thing I really need is still the one thing I can’t have,”

“Genji,”

“My brother,” arms crossed over his chest, the bitterness in his voice was not new. It still hurt. It still hurt like hell. “That’s all I ever wanted, that’s all I ever needed, Hanzo – all these things I’ve done for you, for your dream… I thought you were dead… and it was so unfair, so wrong…” he stared into his brother’s eyes, as if still looking for an answer, “that’s why I stayed, that’s why I chose to do all the things I did: to keep you around somehow, in everything, in every idea, on every wall and every picture,”

“She needs me,” Hanzo offered, nearly defeated, approaching his brother again.

“I need you too,”

The older Shimada put his arms around the Sparrow and there they stayed, for a moment, holding back the tears.

“Why don’t you go find her, then?” the archer whispered in his ear. “I can stay for a while – a short while,”

He should have known better.

Genji left the office and went looking for their half-sister. But when he returned, Hanzo was gone. He sprinted towards the balcony, welcoming the snow and rain – his hands on the railing… there he was, jumping freely from the pagoda to the bridge.

“Hanzo!”

The name got lost in the wind.

“Hanzo…” he whispered, one last time, turning his brother into both, breeze and hurricane. Hanzo, the cruel one and Hanzo, the benevolent one, all his shapes and all his forms were now dancing in the windy night outside that room.

On his desk, he found it: the book, and Hanzo’s hair ribbon, the souvenirs of their past and their present, yelling at him, shattering the night.

He went back to his bed – a bed that was no longer broken. A bed that was his and only his.

And there they stayed. Green and blue, like parallel lines, exhibiting the same symptoms. Hanzo’s hands had decided to let Amelie’s fingers go wherever they wanted to and Genji’s hands were still tied inside his brother’s long lost dreams. It was his job to keep them alive. It was his job to keep his brother around, somehow. Together and apart, united yet immensely alone, in the cages they call freedom.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, guys. It's been a hell of a ride and your words have always helped me. Thank you for the comments and the reviews, for the questions and the support - this fic was meant to be a one-shot and when I decided to create a whole story for these characters, I never thought so many people would read it, enjoy it and feel the need to write their thoughts about it. I'm immensely happy, guys. Thank you all so much.


End file.
